


Periastron, or How to Move in Circles and Still Get Somewhere

by IntelligentAirhead



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: And also Voltron so what can you expect, Autistic Character, Background Plaxum/Nyma, Background Relationships, Found Family, Gen, HC: Nonbinary Hunk, HC: Trans Man Lance, HC: Trans Woman Pidge, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Stardew Valley AU, Trans Characters, Vastly inaccurate growing times for crops but it's stardew, Working through depression and building a support system, You don't have to know anything about stardew valley to read, as in preheating the oven takes eighteen thousand words alone, because you will pry autistic keith from my cold dead autistic hands, neurodivergent characters, the fic is pretty self contained
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2018-11-13 02:37:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 61,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11175249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IntelligentAirhead/pseuds/IntelligentAirhead
Summary: After years of working as a cargo pilot for Galra Corp, a monolithic, soul-sucking corporation with bad pay and worse health benefits, Lance is shaken to realize that flying has become a chore. Then again, it seems like everything is a chore, recently.In a last ditch effort to salvage his mental and emotional well-being, he digs up his grandfather's last gift: the deed to his farm, accompanied by the universe's politest, 'I told you so,' in existence.With enough time, friends, and astonishingly fast-growing crops, Lance might rediscover what it means to change for the better... If only he could stop antagonizing the local blacksmith.(A Stardew Valley AU)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sinelanguage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinelanguage/gifts).



> Now, I know some of the characters are in different places than you might be expecting, and we’re one foot in Voltron, one foot in Stardew Valley, and a third ethereal foot in some nebulous space just beyond*, but trust me. Take my hands. I’m taking you on an anti-capitalist space farming adventure.
> 
> *The Nebulous Space Just Beyond™ is a collection of my childhood memories of Farm Life and my unwillingness to handwave anything. Listen. I love Stardew but accreditation and fishing licenses are Important.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Home is Where You Bother to Unpack Your Unreasonable Amount of Luggage

The ship’s landing was perfect; every facet of it was up to code, enough that Lance was sure the pilot had measured the precise angle of their every action in order to make sure that the procedure was as standard as possible.

Lance hated it.

He’d been shoving his thoughts down for what felt like eternity, trying to smother the image of him walking to the front and casually taking the controls just to throw a wrench in the cookie cutter perfection. The ship landing just two inches off its intended target— not enough to even be an imposition, just enough to ruin the dispassionate boredom of the flight— was the most tantalizing daydream he’d had in years. And he’d had a lot of daydreams! Good ones!

They came with his job, packaged up neatly next to his dental plan and non-existent vacation time. In return for ferrying cargo to beautiful planets that he didn’t have time to actually experience, he got to imagine what it would be like to actually spend time exploring them. What a deal. Great compensation. Every day an adventure.

Once Lance realised he was getting a concerned look from the elderly lady sitting next to him, he tried to iron out his expression and plaster on a smile that felt too wide for his face. The woman smiled at him uncertainly, then looked away.

This was the perfect opportunity for a joke, really; he could redirect her attention with a story about how he was always making faces, how his older sister once told him his face would stick that way if he kept making them, and how he’d tried so hard to keep a straight face for three hours afterwards but couldn’t manage it. He could talk to an old lady. She’d laugh, and all awkwardness would be thrown to the side like old laundry. He knew it.

He just didn’t want to, and it _sucked_. He wanted to want to talk to the old lady! He did! He just… didn’t.

Lance wasn’t sure when he’d stopped wanting to talk to people. He couldn’t remember a time when he didn’t want to be around people, a time where he didn’t want to bask in the kind of attention gotten only from telling a _really_ good story, a time where he didn’t want to just flop against someone and feel understood. But somewhere along the line he’d lost the energy to get there. Setting the groundwork was hard, and it took time and energy that he just didn’t have anymore. And it sucked.

Lance came back to earth— well, not Earth, considering how far he was from home— to the sound of people chattering, hominids stretching with relief and bouncing on the balls of their feet, and others rubbing antennae together, or emitting low humming noises. Lance hadn’t noticed that the shuttle had stopped. It hadn’t shuddered violently upon impact or lurched to a halt at its destination. It just landed.

Trying to contain his completely justified bitterness wasn’t working, so Lance gave into his pettiness and crossed his arms, sinking back into the seat until he was almost melting off of it. The old lady didn’t notice, grabbing her bag and looking expectantly down the aisle, ready to disembark. Somehow that made it worse.

It didn’t take long to disembark, but baggage claim, as always, was another story. No matter what kind of trip, international, interplanetary, or otherwise, sorting through a metric ton of suitcases was about as fun as licking a cactus in order to find the sharpest spine. Especially when all of Lance’s belongings for the next year were hanging in the balance. If his luggage was lost, he was screwed. Well. Lost, stolen by space bandits, shot into a blackhole, strategically used as bait in a gambit that would save hundreds of lives, same diff.

After exploring about seventeen more avenues of thought regarding the fate of his luggage, it was almost disappointing to realise that all of it had survived the trip, safe and sound. They hadn’t even left the cargo hold. Something they had in common with him, these past few—

Nah. Not going there.

Lance shook himself out of it. He was on-planet now, and he had stuff to do aside from argue with his brain about depressing crowfood. For instance: step one was to make his way down to the lobby and look for his ride. Luckily, it didn’t take long to find.

There were enough humans in the spaceport lobby that finding one person would have been difficult, normally. However, when the person in question had a bright white streak of hair, the job was a bit easier. Especially when a grin split his face as soon as he saw Lance; it wasn’t that common of a reaction.

“Lance! You made it.” In a practised movement, he extended his prosthetic arm to shake Lance’s hand. “You can never tell with these shuttles,” he joked.

Lance took a moment to register that he was just staring blankly before snapping out of it. “Uh, yeah! Right. No, things were— things were good. No problems with the ride.” He wasn’t bitter. “You’re Ta— Shiro, right?”

“Yeah, that’s me.” Shiro smiled at him, inclining his head. “I almost sent a picture in the email so you’d know who to look for, but, well…” He shrugged. “A description generally does well enough in my case. Plus, the last time I got a half-decent picture taken was back in the military. Everything since has looked like found footage.” He laughed, as if at a private joke, which was always weird from the outside end.

Lance waited for an explanation.

“Anyway, we should get going.” Shiro looked at the sea of luggage banking Lance on all sides. He almost managed to keep a straight face. “Do you want some help carrying that?”

“I’m fine,” Lance said, trying to fit all of his suitcase handles into his hands at once.

“Are you sure?”

“Abso—heck!” The crack of a suitcase rudely introducing itself to tile punctuated his words. He scrambled to pick it up. “Abso-hecking-lutely. Absoheckinglutely sure. Yep. I sure am. I sure am sure _let’s go now please_.” Lance started marching before Shiro could respond, ears burning as he heard Shiro snort behind him.

 

* * *

 

The wind slapped Lance across the face as soon as he crossed the spaceport’s threshold. His hands withdrew into his sleeves before he could consciously react, and he pulled his jacket tighter around him as soon as he could think to.

Shiro laughed. “You’re used to the Crepascus system, right? Must be a change.” He looked far too comfy and pleased with himself for someone wearing only one layer, even if he did have long sleeves. “Shuttle’s this way,” he added, walking ahead.

“That’s where I’m coming from, anyway, but I grew up in Cuba, then Nevada,” Lance said, following behind. Sure, he’d spent a couple years here, and only a few more in Crepascus, but it was a drop in the bucket, comparatively. “So, like, I’m kind of extra used to the weather not plotting to freeze me into submission.”

Shiro smiled. “You get used to it,” he said. “The weather here is pretty easy to adjust to.”

“How do you figure?” Lance asked, skeptical. “Each season only lasts a month; as soon as you adjust, whoops, time to get used to something else.”

Shiro looked startled for a second, then thoughtful. “Ah, right. Forgot you went to the Garrison here for a bit.” He inclined his head. “Sorry for acting like a bit of a tour guide; kind of comes with the job description.” He paused in front of an imposing looking, if rundown, shuttle.  

“I thought you only had to ferry people into town once every, like, nine months. Like giving birth.” No. What the hell. No. Lance winced. “I mean, no, not like— anyway, it’s rare, right?”

Shiro snorted. “People do want to come into town every once in awhile, believe it or not. Kids from the Garrison looking for trouble; relatives dropping by; vendors, during the warm months. Sometimes there’s overlap.”

From what Lance remembered of the Garrison, he was pretty sure some of that overlap involved the kids trying to smuggle out the hardest nunvil they could lay their hands on. Not that Lance ever did; he’d sneak out for pizza, but anything that might get him in real trouble? Too much of a risk of him getting kicked out. Not that sticking around did him much good in the end.

“In any case,” Shiro continued, walking around to load the luggage, “it’s rare enough that you’re the only passenger I have right now, so it’s up to you if you want to take shotgun or not.”

“Yes!” Lance whooped without thinking, then immediately tried to recover what little dignity he could, about-facing like a cat caught falling off a chair. He was a pilot himself, for chrissakes. Or used to be, at least. He shouldn’t be psyched for _shotgun_.

Shiro chuckled. “Don’t worry; I get it,” he said. “I only had one little sibling— well, two if you count Katie— but even that was enough to get me vaulting over walls to get first dibs. Can’t imagine how strong the instinct is when you have a big family.”

“We had a rotation,” Lance said. “It was rigged.”

“Really?” Shiro asked, clambering into the shuttle.  

Lance followed suit, gesturing emphatically. “Completely! So my whole family’s lanky, right? And you have to adjust seats for everyone— which is a nightmare— or else the front seats are pressing back into people’s legs, or people are sitting in lotus poses, and it’s just this mess of people all in each other’s space, so everyone would exploit that by saying, ‘well, since the seat’s already adjusted, I might as well stay up front,’ and so the rotation never actually worked, right?”

“I see,” Shiro said, inclining his head as he checked his mirrors. “Sounds like I got lucky. I don’t think my younger brother would even consider that adjusting the seat was an option. He won’t even touch the thermostat if he’s left alone, usually. I think he figures that if he waits a month or so it won’t matter.”

Lance grimaced. “Sheesh. Sounds like a one-way trip to either sweating to death or freezing.”

“We try to look after him.” He laughed. “As much as he’ll let us, anyway.”

After that, the conversation petered out for a bit, Shiro focused on navigating the parking lot and pulling out onto the road.

Lance looked out the window, taking in the way the hills sloped upwards into mountains and the way the road wrapped into them. Everything at their current altitude was the patchy yellowish-green that grass took on after being buried by snow for too long, but the mountains were a different story. They looked like they’d been taken over by moss with how completely the trees covered them.  After a moment, he spoke again. “How far away is the valley, again?”

“Hm?” Shiro paused. “Ah.” He tapped out a rhythm against the wheel. “Should take us thirty minutes? Forty at most.”

Lance nodded. “That’s about what I figured. At least it’s closer than the Garrison.”

“There’s that, for sure. I like to think the landscape is nicer, too.” Shiro was quiet for a moment. “You were there for two years, right?”

“Wh— Oh, the Garrison? Yeah.” Lance chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Yeah, I came in late to the party. Graduated on time, though. Luckily, my credits transferred.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard there can be problems with that. A kid in my year had to retake two credits of strength and conditioning.”

Lance twisted in his seat. “Wait, you went to the Garrison?”

“Even taught there for a while.” Shiro’s eyebrows rose, but he didn’t look away from the road. “I figured you knew. I told you I used to fly for the military when I sent you the confirmation email, right?”

“Yeah, but I just kind of figured you must have studied off-planet. After all, you’re practically a living legend. if you’d graduated from the Garrison, I would have thought that they’d be blowing their own horn so loud that you could hear it a lightyear away.” Especially considering the creepy wall of alumni pictures. Though, Lance never did like to look at them much, so he’d probably just missed Shiro’s.  

“Living legend, huh?” Shiro laughed, but it didn’t sound particularly happy. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

Lance was about to ask what he meant, but Shiro shook his head.

“Enough about me,” Shiro said. “That’s a boring story. On the other hand, it’s up to me to fill the role of nosey small-town neighbor.” He chuckled. “Everyone was surprised when we heard someone was moving into McClain’s old farm. It’s… Well, It’s been a while. We were half expecting it to be abandoned.” He frowned. “Or sold.”

Lance remembered the envelope, addressed in spidery cursive. “Well, Gramps wanted me to have a fallback plan in case…” In case Lance sold his life to an emotionally draining, soulsucking corporate entity and spiralled into a breakdown. “Well. Just in case. He wasn’t sure that piloting would work out the way I wanted to.”

Shiro grimaced in sympathy. “Sometimes things just don’t work out.”

Lance wanted to correct him, to say that it was more than that. He could talk about how his job had turned something that used to be as natural as breathing into a chore, how flying became something he had to force himself to do instead of something he loved doing, how everything exciting and fun had been stripped away until he woke up every morning feeling like there was a weight on his chest, tethering him to bed, how he’d read Gramps letter so many times that the words were practically engraved into his corneas, a constant refrain of ‘you must be in a dire need of change’. It wouldn't waste more breath than talking about the weather would.

But the words were wrong and didn’t fit in his mouth or the shuttle, and the only thing they would get him was an awkward situation or an uncomfortable driver, so instead he swallowed the words back and said, “yeah,” and that was that.

 

* * *

 

“And… here we are,” Shiro announced as he put on the brakes. The shuttle stop wasn’t much, just a place to disembark, a signpost, and a ticket terminal. The most striking thing about it were the people at the stop.

Lance was out of his seat before he even fully registered what he was seeing. “Hunk!”

“Lance!”

“ _Hunk_!” Lance barreled towards his best friend, then stopped as Hunk held up a hand.

“Okay, wait like five seconds; I need to put my phone away.” Hunk pocketed their phone. “Okay, hands free. _Now_ go for it.”

Lance backed up, then ran to gain proper momentum, launching himself into Hunk’s arms. “There’s my Hunk-hug! God, it’s good to be even taller.” He peered down at Hunk expectantly. “Where’s the spin?”

“Nuh-uh,” Hunk replied, rolling their eyes. “You are way too tall for that. If I spun you, you’d knock over something. Probably the signpost.”

The sound of someone politely clearing their throat halted the conversation.

Lance looked over and saw potentially the prettiest person he’d ever seen staring at the both of them expectantly. Their long, white hair billowed out like a cloud, framing an expression that Lance had only ever seen on parents three seconds before they asked their elementary schooler, ‘and who’s your friend here?’

Lance quickly extricated himself from Hunk’s embrace and thrust out his hand. “The name’s Lance. You must be Shay, right?”

Shiro, who had made his way over to the group by this point, let out a short guffaw, which was followed by a hoot of laughter from Hunk.

The person Lance had mistaken for Shay, however, rose their eyebrows. “Hardly,” they said, “though I’m flattered by the comparison. My name is Allura.” They cocked their head, arms crossed. “Do you usually make assumptions this immediately?”

“Oh yeah, big time,” Hunk answered. “He’d win gold in any vertical leap you threw at him, figuratively speaking.” They started counting off on their fingers. “Jumping to conclusions, jumping the gun, jumping—”

“Hunk!”

“—down people's throats. See? Like just now. He’s great at that.”

“I can’t believe you’re attacking me like this five seconds after seeing me for the first time in _over a year_ , buddy! A year!” Lance gestured for emphasis, arms flung wide. “Doesn’t friendship mean anything anymore?”

“Friendship means a lot of things!” Hunk defended. “One of them being honesty. Don’t get me wrong, Lance, I love you, but— you stopped listening to me three seconds ago.”

Lance poked his head out from where he was unloading his baggage. “No, I’m listening. It started with ‘I love you,’ and I know there was a ‘but’ coming, but as your best buddy in the entire world, I’m gonna assume that it was leading to, ‘you’re so awesome I can hardly believe you exist sometimes’.”

“Oh, for sure,” Hunk said, nodding. “And then I was going to add that you tend to get wrapped up in your own head.”

“Hey!” Lance frowned at them, setting the last of his luggage on the ground. “I’ll have you know it’s a very handsome, fine-quality head, and leaving it unoccupied would be a tragic waste of resources.”

“They appear to get along quite well, don’t they?” Allura murmured to Shiro, just loud enough for Lance to hear.

“Well, yeah,” Lance said, straightening to face her. “We’ve known each other for years. I don’t think I could have passed half my tests without— Wait!” Lance froze. “You’re Allura!”

“Yes, we established that.”

“As in the town mayor, Allura?”

Allura snorted. “I should hope so! If not, then there’s quite a bit of paperwork to be done.”

“What are you doing here?” Lance winced. “That came out wrong. I mean, don’t you have more important stuff to be doing?”

“Our town has a small population, and that comes with relative pros and cons.” Allura folded her hands in front of her. “I should like to ensure that those introduced to our community make a smooth transition, and my ability to do so is one of the more favorable aspects.” Her tone left no room for further doubt.

Well. Alright then?

“Okay,” Shiro said, once he’d finished securing the shuttle. “Do you have all your stuff together?”

Lance nodded. “Yep.”

“Then let’s head over to the farm,” Shrio replied, brushing off his hands. He whistled as they walked. “It’s gotta be nice to be the closest place to the shuttle.”

Allura laughed. “You’re acting as if you don’t live ten dobashes away. And besides, if we’re speaking in terms of relative distance, Hunk lives closer by far.”

“If I scaled a sheer rock shelf and climbed over a fence, maybe,” Hunk objected. “Which, personally? Not my favorite shortcut. My least favorite, actually, considering that that’s a one way trip to breaking my neck, and then I’d have to go to the hospital, and then—” They shuddered. “Let’s just go ahead and call it a long-cut instead of a short-cut, since it would take me a whole month before I could go home again.”

Allura shrugged. “Well, Shiro did say ‘closest,’ not ‘easiest to get to’.”

“I’m pretty sure the latter was implied,” Shiro said, eyebrows raised.

“Well then,” Allura said, smiling, “perhaps you should attempt to be more straightforward in the future.”

“I’m always— Oh, here we are.” Shiro interrupted himself. “Took us, what, three minutes?”

Lance barely heard Shiro as he took in the area around them. He knew it’d been years, but… He hadn’t expected it to look so overgrown, or for there to be so many trees. Even the cottage, always a little rickety, had aged. It felt like only yesterday he’d walked up to the porch and immediately started complaining to Gramps about school. Seeing the farm like this was like missing a step on a staircase, expecting something to be there that just… wasn’t. Not anymore, at least.

“It’s had better days,” Hunk said.

Lance looked over at them, taking in the sad twist to their face. In a way, the farm had been as much of a home away from home to them as it had been to him. Earth was too far away for them to have spent breaks with their families, so summers with Gramps had been a necessity.

“Unfortunately, cleaning this place up is probably going to take up most of your Spring,” Shiro said, sighing.

“Once, you do though,” Hunk said, shaking off melancholy with the sudden intensity of a dog shaking off water, “you can come to me if you want to upgrade a few things.”

“Like what?” Lance asked.

“I told you Shay and I are researching sustainable engineering and hydroponics, right? And your farm has so much easy access to running water that it’s be a waste not to use it, energy-wise. So, Shay and I roll in, work with you on designing a method of farming that results in high yield without compromising the environment, maybe fix up your house a little so that you can actually cook _inside_ instead of—”

“Hunk,” Lance interrupted, “I appreciate it, buddy, but that’s your _job_. I can’t just take your help without paying you back.”

Hunk blinked at him, then laughed, pulling him into a hug. “Yeah, no, you’re my best friend and I love you, man, but I wasn’t going to do it for free.” They pulled away, looking at him earnestly. “You’d definitely get a discount! But I have marketable skills, and unfortunately, as you know, capitalism.”

“Wish I didn’t.” Lance took a moment to hope that his former boss was having a terrible day, forgot to put on deodorant that morning, and left his lunch at home.

“Don’t we all,” Allura grumbled, which was something Lance didn’t ever expect to hear from the mayor. She shook her head. “In any case, Lance, we’re glad to welcome you into our community. I hope this can be a grand new start.” She extended her hand to shake his.

“Yeah,” Lance said, smiling. “I hope so too.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all might wanna get comfortable. If you’re familiar with Stardew, you’ll know that we have two years before ghost-grandpa’s house inspection and a lot of work to do before we get there.
> 
> Especially considering how long the Spring Year 1 chapter is shaping up to be.
> 
> Anyway!!! Thank you Stella, Alex, Max, and Rowan for betaing, and thank you Sine for waiting so patiently for your Christmas gift. Merry Christmas in June.


	2. A Long Walk Off A Short Dock Has the Same End Result as A Short Walk in The Rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Itemizing Your To-Do List from Weirdest to Most Standard Chore Isn't The Average Procedure, But Isn't That The Point

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd originally intended to separate the chapters by seasons, but after I realized that Spring was already almost 10K long, I decided it was probably for the best if I split them in a more traditional fashion. I don't want to make anyone slog through a 26K chapter. 
> 
> On the bright side, you'll probably notice that this chapter's around 5K, which means the next one's almost done. Hope you enjoy!

Lance sat back on the ground, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his forearm. By now, he’d figured out not to get his gloves involved. He’d learnt his lesson the first time he’d gotten a palmful of dirt in his eyes, thanks. He still felt disgusting and wanted a shower, but at least he wasn’t adding even _more_ dirt to the mix.

Luckily most of the trees he had to clear were saplings; it might have been years since the farm saw actual use, but it wasn’t long enough for most trees to grow to full maturity. Well. Aside from some of the pine trees, and they were reasonable enough to be soft wood, which made chopping them down much easier. Really, the trees weren’t much of a problem at all; it was the vines and foliage that were causing most of the trouble.

Lance reached for where he’d set his phone aside, checking the time, then groaned, collapsing back on the ground. One in the afternoon! He was exhausted and it was only one! _One_!

At least he’d cleared a lot of ground. He’d even tilled a few rows of soil near the cottage. He still had to plant the parsnip seeds Hunk had given as a housewarming gift— which, gee, thanks, plants that _burned hands_ if harvested carelessly—  but he was making progress! He had a lot to show for it! Like… tree stumps. Which he’d have to dig up later.

He groaned and turned over onto his stomach. At least he could sell some of the wood as lumber. Or ask Hunk how to process it and use it himself.

Lance puffed out his cheeks, releasing an aggravated breath. He just needed to find his chill and breathe for a second. No time to be overwhelmed; he just had to break everything up into chunks, and then it would—

A flash of white caught his eye, and his thoughts immediately derailed.

Lance turned over, tucking his legs underneath him as he confirmed that, yes, he’d spotted a dandelion. Which, technically, considering it was a weed, he was obligated to remove immediately, and not blow the seeds into the wind because he wasn’t twelve years old, and it would only cause him more headaches when he had to pull up more of the suckers later on, but...

No. It would be a terrible idea. He was a responsible adult with his own farm, and there was absolutely no reason for him to do anything aside from uprooting and destroying the weed where it sat.

Determined, he reached down, uprooted the dandelion, and then blew the seeds away in a single breath. Screw responsible decision making; that just got him years of working at a job he hated and six hours of chopping down trees.

Feeling a little bit better, Lance brushed himself off and stood up. Then he took in a steadying breath. He’d put it off long enough; sooner or later he’d have to visit Gramp’s shrine, and this was as good a time as any.  

He had to move carefully; there were large areas where the surrounding lake overtook the farmland, creating streams, and the only way to cross was by way of simple bridges. Lance didn’t really mind, much. The water was pretty, especially during the sunset. It was too bad that the bridges did whatever they could to ruin the picture.

They looked like they’d been recycled from an old pirate ship, and it was probably more accurate to call them a loose collection of planks than bridges. They were still holding strong, though. Gramps had always cared more about function over aesthetics.

Which! While being a perfectly valid approach, wasn’t really Lance’s style. Although, remodelling the bridges probably didn’t qualify as very high priority, considering all the other work he had to do.

He paused and looked down at the bridge, squinting. Sure, his to-do list was already a mile long, but it wouldn’t hurt to add ‘checking for rotten boards’ to it, right? After all, the last thing he needed was to fall through rotting wood and introduce his good friend Leg to bad influences like Splinters and their pals, Tetanus and Infection. And if he happened to make some really ugly bridges look nicer in the process, well, that was just the way of things.

It was an easy picture to sketch: new bridges across the property, the cottage with a new coat of paint, crops coming in where before there’d been tangled undergrowth; everything coming up Lance. Just him and his farm. Surrounded by his own accomplishments.

Why was that picture making him feel so conflicted?

Trying his best to shake off the weird mix of emotions, he continued walking towards the shrine. Maybe he was torn up about taking Gramps’ place? That would make sense, right? Gramps would never let him live that down, though. He’d probably say something about only ever expecting Lance to be better than he was, laugh, and then hand over a rubix cube Gramps couldn’t beat by himself.

Maybe his brain was just having a hard time realizing that, hey, he wasn’t in cargo hell anymore, and he was allowed to have aspirations without agonizing fear of disappointment. Which, if true, was a major downer.

Well, whatever.

He shrugged it off as he reached the shrine. Someone had obviously been maintaining it; the immediate area around it was free of debris, and the shrine itself was immaculate. Hunk had probably been looking after it. Lance needed to thank them later, though they’d probably wave it off.

The only thing out of place was a single sheet of paper, weighed down by a heavy stone. It looked worse for wear, all weathered and ripped, but the ink was still miraculously intact. Which—

Was _really freaking weird_. Back up, why would a sheet of paper that had clearly survived several rain storms not have running ink? Hell, the ink should have been bleached out by now. That note should have been unreadable.

Lance had backed up, his hands stretched in front of him defensively, before he even consciously registered anything was wrong. Weird, freaky grave notes? Nuh-uh. No thanks!

He’d just pay his respects to Gramps and then head in the exact opposite direction, thanks.

Unless.

It _had_ been Hunk (presumably) maintaining the shrine. They definitely could have whipped up weather resistant ink, or paper, or whatever. Maybe.

Oh, he was going to be _so_ haunted.

Lance carefully reached out, his hand hovering over the stone for a moment. Then, quick as lightning, he plucked it off the paper, sliding the note out before dropping the rock like a hot coal. Directly onto his foot.

“Holy _crow,_ that hurts! Why! What did I do to— Why!” His lack of foresight was _not_ an acceptable answer, due to the fact that even though it was most likely, it didn’t factor in the universe’s vindictive determination to see him fail.

Next chance he got, he was digging through Gramp’s storage for some old steel-toed boots. Nothing less would defend him from the spiteful hand of the universe itself working against him.

Still muttering under his breath, he held the note up to the light. “Lance,” it read, which was a promising start. “Wait for my return on the dawn of your third year. - Grandpa.”

Well. That settled it. Gramps had either just won a posthumous award for Most Effective Prankster, or Lance was officially living on a _haunted farm_ and should be prepared for zombie grandpa in two years, which! Great! Go figure! As much as he loved Gramps, he really didn’t need the image of his ghost—  or his shambling corpse, for that matter—  following him around while he was farming, thanks!

“Well, this has officially gone banana bread,” Lance said, nodding to himself. “So, ignoring that!” He was going to plant his parsnips, sleep for the next eighty years, and, if he could help it, erase that nonsense from his mind entirely.

 

* * *

  

Lance had decided he’d about filled his quota of ominous notes showing up on his doorstep. Any future creepy handwritten documents could be slipped into the nearest stream because he was done accepting them. Two was enough! More than enough, actually!

To its credit, _this_ note had actually been sent via the postal system, and was in an actual envelope. However, any dubious credentials that might have been stacked in its favor were immediately rescinded on the basis of it smelling like seaweed, being written on a weird, sickly-looking scrap of organic matter that could maybe pass for paper’s distant cousin, and reading like something out of a noir film.

“Hello there,” it read, which, to be fair, was the least threatening way it could have introduced the rest of its exponentially more foreboding contents. “You should come down to the beach sometime. We’ve got something for you.” There was no signature, which ramped up the creepy factor by at least eleven.

Lance pursed his lips. There was a chance, however small, that this was all leading to him getting a gift basket full of fancy soaps, and the people who lived in town just happened to be very bad at first impressions. Maybe being as creepy as possible was a sign of respect around these parts.

Yeah, right.

He was better off just dismissing the letter entirely and cleaning up the farm instead. Going along with creepy invitations to the beach was a one-way trip to sleeping with the fishes. In a literal kelp bed. And then rotting away into fish food.

It was a shame, though. He’d really been looking forward to living close to the ocean again.

Lance went to toss out the letter, then paused. “Huh,” he said, more of an exhale than anything else, then laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound. He really hadn’t changed at all, had he?

Years of flying cargo between planets that he never got to see, close enough to touch tourist traps and local hangouts, never once visiting. Too busy. Too desperate to make ends meet, to prove that he was a pilot, to get promoted, to get somewhere, anywhere.

Also too smart to follow creepy instructions stuffed into mailboxes without at least getting backup. Lance sighed. But he’d be damned if he was scared away from the first beach he had a chance of visiting in years. He picked up his phone.

“Hey, Hunk? Are you free anytime soon?”

 

* * *

 

“Tada!” Hunk gestured grandly at the beach spread before them. “I present to you, the one— okay, not the one _or_ the only, considering the water to land ratio on this planet alone, let alone the galaxy.” They cocked their head, covering their mouth in thought. “Although, we could make a case for ‘only’ meaning the only water source with this exact ecosystem, in which case!” They cleared their throat. “I present to you: the one and only ocean. Within a ten mile radius, anyway.”

The beach was beautiful, all fine sand and clear water. The sound of waves mixed with the unmistakeable smell of the sea to brew a perfect sensory assault on Lance’s nostalgia. God. He’d missed this.

“Hunk,” Lance said, after a moment. “This is very important. I need you to give me one good reason not to hit the water in the next five seconds.”

“Why?”

“Impulse control.”

“What? No, I hate doing that; I’m always impulse control.” Hunk wrinkled their nose. “When do you get to be impulse control?”

Well! No one could say Lance hadn't tried to resist. “Five seconds are up!” He called, then immediately barreled towards the dock.

“Right, that’s why,” Hunk said. Then louder, “You’re still wearing jeans! And your shoes!”

“Temporary problem!”

“ _Do not strip on a public beach, Lance, I swear to_ — Lance!”

Lance rolled his eyes as he folded his jeans, setting them next to his jacket on the dock. “Would you chill out? It’s not stripping if I still have my shirt and boxers on.” He placed his shoes on top of his pants, then stuffed his socks inside them. It was a good thing it was a low-dysphoria day; there was no way Hunk would ever let him swim in his binder.  

“It’s _spring,”_ Hunk argued as they made their way over to Lance. _“_ Early spring! The second of spring! That isn’t swimming time! That’s hypothermia time!”

Lance frowned, ignoring the way his teeth were getting into pre-chatter position. If his jaw wasn’t vibrating at a certain frequency, it didn’t count as chattering, and he wasn’t cold. Just as he thought that, the wind picked up. He folded his arms and winced on instinct.

Okay, so Hunk may, potentially, have had somewhat of a point. But they were still wrong, since they hadn’t considered the most important facet of the issue: logic was bad and got in the way of Lance doing good and fun things, like swimming.

“Besides, didn’t you come down here to meet whoever sent you that letter? I don’t think splashing around in your underwear leaves a very good impression.”

“Well, it’s leaving a memorable impression, at least.” The voice came out of seemingly nowhere, causing both Lance and Hunk to startle, then whirl around in search for the voice.

“Well, this is going swimmingly.” The voice muttered, just loud enough to be audible. Then, louder, “Edge of the dock, then look down.”

Lance did as instructed, then gaped. Below them floated a merperson, occasionally flicking their tail to maintain their position.

“Oh, yeah, that makes sense,” Hunk said, nodding. “I probably should have guessed when you told me about the letter. Sorry about that, Lance. Anyway! Looks like your penpals are merfolk.”

“I can see that now!”

“As I can see you,” the merperson replied. They frowned at Lance. “I was expecting you to be quicker about getting here, though.”

Lance bristled. “Well! You didn’t exactly give me a specific time. Or any information at all!”

The merperson cocked their head to the side. “Is that so?” They looked thoughtful. “I’m more involved with research and development than public relations, usually. I’ll talk to Swirn about it; vague outreach attempts will only cause problems.”

Well. That was… an unexpected response. Lance felt kinda bad for leaping down their throat so quickly.  

Hunk scratched the back of their head and opened their mouth to speak.  

Lance narrowed his eyes, immediately guessing at what was coming, and covered their mouth. “Oh no you don’t, buddy. No being sheepish on my behalf. I can do that by myself.”

Hunk crossed their eyes looking down at Lance’s hand, and Lance quickly removed it before they could do something gross like spit on it to get him to stop. “I was just going to apologize!” They defended.

“For?”

They made a face. “For… Okay, so I was going to apologize for something you did, but still.”

“Uh huh.” Lance shook his head. “You’re ridiculous,” he said fondly.

He turned back to the merperson, who was looking at them both with a quizzical expression. “Sorry for getting on your case earlier. The name’s Lance; what’s yours?”

“Plaxum,” the merperson replied, which Lance really hoped was their name and not them swearing at him for being rude earlier.

“Nice to meet you, Plaxum,” Lance said. He stared at Hunk expectantly.

Hunk stared back, face blank. “What?”

“Are you going to introduce yourself?”

“Why?” Hunk asked. “I already know her.”

Lance spluttered. “Wh— Hunk!”

“That’s why I said I should have guessed!” Hunk defended.

Lance threw his hands into the air. “I guess!” Shaking his head, he turned back to Plaxum. “So, what did you want from me?” Hadn’t she said something about research and development?

“Glad you asked!” Plaxum said, brightening. “So, to start with, our fish population is out of control.” Not where Lance thought that was headed, but alright. “Now, you’d think that would be fine for us merfolk, considering fish is our sole food source, and that we’d be able to keep the population under control, yes?”

Lance was officially lost. “Uh, sure—”

“But you’d be wrong!” Plaxum flicked her tail, spraying water upwards. “So, we’ve started an initiative to recruit the local air-breathers and encourage fishing in order to lower the fish population and keep the ecosystem as balanced as possible.” She smiled, revealing rows of sharp teeth. “So! With that in mind, I’m here to offer you a complimentary fishing rod, courtesy of  my co-worker, Blumfump.”

With that, she ducked under the water, resurfacing with a simple fishing rod, which she then held out towards Lance.

He blinked at her for a long moment, then accepted the rod. “Thanks?”

“No thanks necessary, so long as you help out.” She nodded sharply, then, her mission accomplished, ducked down and shot away like a torpedo.

“Well, she didn’t stick around for very long, huh?”

“Plaxum?” Hunk looked thoughtful. “I guess. She’s just really passionate about her job, y’know? Off-duty she’s more laid-back.”

“I’ll take your word for it, pal.” Lance looked across the ocean, then down at the rod he was holding with the begrudging resignation of someone holding dirty clothes in front of a laundromat. “Don’t I need a fishing license?” He asked.

“I think your more immediate concern is putting your pants back on, to be honest.”

“Hunk,” Lance whined.

Hunk folded their arms.

“Fine.” Lance sighed and put down the rod so that he could put his pants back on.

“There we go.” Hunk hummed. “As for the fishing license... not really? This beach is basically government property, like a park, and it’s down to what legislation we pass, really. Since the merfolk are kind of constantly leading campaigns to decrease the fish population, and since overfishing hasn’t been a problem, there hasn’t been much need for mandatory fishing licenses, y’know?” They blew out their cheeks. “I’ll tell you what, though: it’s been hard to keep things as they are.”

“What do you mean?” Lance asked.

“Galra Corp’s angry that this beach even exists, much less that we’re fishing like this. They’ve been trying to buy this area for years.”

Lance deflated at the mention of his former place of employment. “Let me guess: they want to dump their messes here.”

“Not necessarily,” Hunk said, then course corrected. “Or not how you’d think. Beachfront property is prime real-estate. If they can control who lives where and the price of property, they can drive out anyone they don’t want around.”

Lance snorted, a bitter twist to his mouth. “Of course.” He shook his head, then stood up. “Well, that’s officially killed my mood.”

Hunk winced. “Sorry, I—”

“Not your fault, buddy.” Lance flashed a tight smile at him. “Still, I think I’m gonna head back to the farm and do what I can to spruce things up a bit. Thanks for coming with.”

“No problem,” Hunk said.

Lance tried not to feel too bad about how quickly he left after that.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Lance woke with a start. He looked around blearily, blanket wrapped around him like a cape, unsure of what could have woken him up at— he checked his phone— five am. Six-thirty was already a crime against beauty sleep, but at least he was _used_ to waking up then. This was just untenable. Even if he _had_ officially been asleep for thirteen hours, he was entitled to certain rights, and being in bed as long as he possibly could was one of them.

Resolved, Lance tossed his blanket over his head and flopped back into bed. Which, of course, was the exact moment that a loud boom echoed through the house.

Lance threw the blanket off, half falling, half jumping out of bed. He held a hand to his chest, feeling his heart pound as he looked around. As he searched, the room was lit for a single instant, and the boom sounded again, cracking the silence open before leaving the room bare.

Oh. Lightning.

Relaxing, Lance began to sink to the floor, then remembered the existence of splinters, and moved to go sit in a chair instead. He looked out the window closest to him and sighed. Now that he was listening for it, the sound of rain was obvious. The sound of thunder should have been unmistakeable, but… it had been a while.

He sat back, watching it pour down. After a minute, he’d turn on the electric kettle, make some hot cocoa, and take his meds. After a minute.

 

* * *

  

The rain still hadn’t let up a few hours later, which kind of put a hole in Lance’s plans to make up the ground he’d lost by turning in early yesterday. Yardwork wasn’t fun to begin with; adding rain to the mix made it even worse.

Lance crossed his arms, adjusting his sitting position on the porch. He could fish, but he really didn’t want to. His heart went out to Plaxum— it really did— but he had to be in the right mental place for fishing, and that was not happening any time soon. He could go back inside and sleep, but he’d put his shoes on and everything. He’d already committed to not wearing his pajamas all day.

His eyes wandered over to the parsnips in front of his house. He paused, then steepled his hands in front of his mouth. There was something wrong with that picture.

He hopped off the fence, crossing over to the parsnips in a few strides. The parsnips that should not have shown any visible signs of growth. Because he planted them on Monday, and it was Wednesday morning. The parsnips that were very much almost ready to be harvested.

What.

 _“What.”_ Lance crouched down, examining the crops from every angle. There was no mistake; either someone had crept onto the farm over the night and replaced his parsnip seeds with nearly full-grown plants, or they’d grown at an unprecedented rate.

Sure, crops tended to grow faster with the weird light wavelengths this planet’s sun put out, but it still took at least a week to produce parsnip _seedlings_ , usually! This had never happened when Gramps had been—

Lance pulled up short, then stared down at the plants. The note had said three years, right? There was no way Gramps’ ghost was using plant magic or something, right? That would be silly. Yeah. That’d be ridiculous.

Lance poked a leaf, then yelped at a sudden buzzing sensation. He swatted at his jacket, frantically attempting to get rid of whatever ghost or bug or— it was his phone, wasn’t it?  Aggravated at himself, Lance dug the phone out of his pocket. Newly freed, the phone apparently then made its one goal in life to meet and become one with the mud below. He scrambled to catch it, then wheezed in relief as he stopped it from disappearing into the muck.

While Lance looked the phone over for any damage, it vibrated again, lighting up with a reminder to buy seeds from the general store. Well, that answered the question of what he should do to wait out the rain.

He puffed out his cheeks. Leave it to him to forget the very first step to farming: actually planting the crops. At least past-Lance had his back.

Before he went back inside to get his wallet, he looked down at the parsnip plants. Maybe the new seeds would come with the added bonus of _not_ being haunted.

 

* * *

 

The walk from the cottage to the center of town hardly took fifteen minutes, which was almost a disappointment. Wandering along the path, boots squelching in the mud, the smell of geosmin wafting in the air… it was nice. It was just really, really nice.

Although.

Lance eyed the puddle in front of him, then looked around for witnesses. From the looks of it, it was just him, the empty cobblestone plaza, and the bona fide lake of a puddle, begging to be disturbed. This had the potential to be even better than the walk.

As he jumped in, he felt a wash of vindication. Then just the wash. And then immediate regret. He was very much wearing denim, which miraculously hadn’t stopped being a thing when he jumped in, which meant that heavy, wet denim was a very real, very uncomfortable reality, and god he hated having to live with the consequences to his actions.

Screwing up his face, he stepped out of the puddle, wincing as his jeans chafed against him. Pants that became an awful leg cage of discomfort as soon as they got wet weren’t ethical. He was a good— He was a passable person! He didn’t deserve this. At least his boots had kept his socks from getting wet.

He shook his leg in an attempt to dry it, then immediately stopped because it ramped up the discomfort by about eight hundred percent. Well, that was just great. He’d just have to suck it up and drip on the store’s doormat.

Or, he would have, if it was open.

He stared blankly at the sign that listed the store’s hours. There it was, clear as day— or eye-searingly red as cheap paint, anyway: “Closed on Wednesdays!”

The exclamation point might as well have been a salt-encrusted spear crafted for the sole purpose of stabbing him in the chest and ruining his life. Or, at the very least, wasting his Wednesday.

Sighing, he turned to leave; however, something caught his eye. One of the fliers pinned to the corkboard next to the store was fluttering, the bottom caught by the wind. Curious, Lance drew closer.

Most of the fliers looked like something off a classifieds website: requests for services, trade offers and the like. Nothing really stood out among them, but Lance was sure he’d find something entertaining if he looked harder. Far more eye-catching, however, was the giant calendar that took up the entire left half of the board.

Some of the days had events written in, but the vast majority were birthdays. Apparently the town was small enough that they could afford to pencil in all of the residents’ birthdays. Lance whistled. He’d known only a few people lived around these parts, but… this was kind of ridiculous. Especially considering that a year only lasted something like a hundred or so days on this planet.

He looked at the day’s date, but nothing was listed. The next day, on the other hand, looked to be the birthday of someone named Katie. He paused. He was sure he’d heard that name recently, but he couldn’t quite remember where. A couple moments of thought still turned up nothing, so it probably wasn’t important.

There wasn’t much else of interest, considering Hunk’s next birthday wasn’t for another two ‘years’, so it was about time he left.

The thought crossed his mind that maybe his birthday would show up on the calendar one day, but he dismissed it. It wasn’t like he was back home on Earth; there weren’t that many people who knew him here, and aside from Hunk, he doubted any of them would care about it anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Air - Yesterday at 1:48 AM  
> me, the author: buddy you got a big storm coming  
> clenches fist  
> and that storm,  
> is love and support


	3. Can Patience Really Be Considered A Virtue When Everything Happens All The Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Communication is Hard, But So is Existing, So It's Probably a Good Thing They're Both Collaborative Activities

The magic parsnips were ready to harvest, and Lance was terrified. Four days. It had taken _four days_ for the parsnips to reach maturity. What the _hell_.

He stared down at them, arms crossed. On one hand, there was no telling what they planned to do next if he didn’t harvest them. They’d already shown themselves to be intimidating opponents, and whatever move they made would be swift and merciless. On the other hand, there was also no way to predict what they’d do if he did harvest— what was he thinking.

Lance rolled his eyes, uncrossing his arms. They were parsnips. Sure, fast-growing, probably-haunted parsnips, but that didn’t mean they were plotting his demise.

Still… Maybe it was better to leave them where they were. Just for the time being. Not that Lance was scared, or anything. It was just more prudent to research first! Like, perhaps, talking with someone who knew literally anything about abnormal plant behavior.

He pulled up short, then covered his face with his hands. Hunk. Why hadn’t he thought of Hunk to begin with? They’d been the one to give him the freaky seeds in the first place.

Lance took his phone out of his pocket, then stopped, chewing on his lip.

The last time he’d called Hunk had been for the beach thing, and that had ended on a sour note. What if Hunk thought he was mad at them? After all, they hadn’t called or texted since. Or… maybe Hunk was the one who was mad. It _was_ kind of a jerk move to ask for a favor, snip at the person doing it, and then leave. Sure, Hunk didn’t really get mad over stuff like that,  but… what if they were? Or worse: what if they were disappointed?

Lance pinched the bridge of his nose. What was he thinking? It wasn’t like Hunk was known for randomly deciding, ‘hey, Lance was a little more bitter than usual, better not be friends with him anymore’. They’d been best friends for years; something this little wouldn’t change their mind about that.

Besides, this was Hunk! The universal friend! The literal best person in the galaxy!

Which made it all the more likely that they’d finally realized they deserved better than a friend like Lance.

He walked over to the porch steps and sat down. This was ridiculous. He was being ridiculous. If he would just call Hunk, they’d be sure to answer, happy to talk to Lance as ever. Probably.

Still, maybe it was better not to bother them over one little thing. Sure, the parsnips were scary and weird, but they weren’t exactly on the attack. If, somehow, Hunk was perhaps potentially less than pleased with Lance, then the best move would to be wait until he had more to discuss with them.  

He nodded to himself, sighing. Yeah, that was for the best.

Decided, Lance opened up the web browser on his phone, closed it, and then immediately called Hunk.

Every ring of the phone sounded a lot like the chime of a timer counting down to the point where he could safely hang up and say that he’d tried his best. However, after an agonizing wait that was over all too quickly, Hunk answered. “Hey, Lance. What’s up?”

“Hey! Hunk, buddy!” God, what had he meant to ask about? “I have a few questions about getting the farm recertified!” Not that. But asking about two things was better than one, right? That had been the plan from the start. Kind of.

Well, he’d fumbled onto a story, at least; he might as well roll with it. “It just seems high priority, y’know? Gotta lay the groundwork so I can actually sell produce once the crops come in.” Lance congratulated himself on managing such a good transition. “Which, coincidentally! Some have.”

“Already?” Hunk sounded surprised on the other end of the line, which meant that the parsnips’ creepy factor skyrocketed; however, that was far preferable to Hunk sounding frustrated or disappointed with Lance.

Lance’s anxiety dropped like a stone. Haunted vegetables or no, he still had his best friend.  “Oh!” Hunk’s voice pitched in sudden comprehension, and Lance could imagine the way their head tilted, eyebrows drawn together, like they’d found the answers to a question written on the ceiling.

“Oh?” Lance leaned back against the porch. “What ‘oh’?”

“You mean the parsnips?”

Lance straightened. “Yeah, those’d be the ones. Did you…” He trailed off, squinting. Had Hunk been _expecting_ this?

“That’s great,” Hunk continued, unfazed, “Pidge’ll be really excited.”

“Was this— Did you—   _Hunk_ ,” Lance squawked, rising to his full height. “We agreed! No experiments without letting me know first!”

“I meant to!” Hunk’s tone immediately jumped from pleased to sheepish. “Besides, it wasn’t technically my experiment! It’s barely an experiment at all.” Hunk hummed, low and thoughtful. “More like product testing, if you think about it.”

Lance narrowed his eyes. “Hunk. Pal. Bud. Friend. Light of my life.”

“Oh no.”

“My bro. My bosom buddy—”

“This is just going to make whatever you’re about to say worse.”

“Product testing _is_ an experiment.” Lance groaned, pushing his hair back from his forehead. “Just… why. Why would you do this.”

“I thought product testing would sound better!”

“It really doesn’t, and also, so not an answer. Like, so unrelated to the question that they come from separate solar systems.” Lance bent over, reexamining the parsnips in this new light. The light of betrayal.

“Now you’re just being dramatic,” Hunk said.

“Did I say that out loud?” Lance made a face. “Because! I totally meant to.”

“Uh-huh.” If it was possible to hear a person rolling their eyes, the sound would probably be identical to one of Hunk’s sighs. “Okay, I get it. It was my bad to give you the seeds without all the details.”

“Thank you,” Lance said, sniffing. “Now can you tell me why?”

“Pidge had asked me to test out a control group for her new strain of Parsnips, and I thought, oh hey, Lance needs seeds, this is a win-win scenario for both of them! And then I just kind of…” Hunk trailed off, their tone sheepish. “Forgot to explain.”

“Oh my god.” Lance closed his eyes, then took a deep breath. “Okay! Okay. I forgive you because there’s literally no doubt in my mind that you forgot, but jeeze, Hunk. Give a guy a little bit of warning next time, okay? I can’t exactly sell crops without knowing the major deets. Such as— just for example— how fast they grow and why.”

There was a muffled sound on the other end. “Sorry, that was me nodding. I realized as I was doing it that you couldn’t see it, and I was like, oh no, better explain. Which, considering this conversation I should probably do more often? Phone calls aside.”

Lance smiled, shaking his head. “Sorry for getting so up-in-arms, buddy. I know you wouldn’t do anything to deliberately screw with me.”

“Of course not!” Hunk sounded offended. “You’re my best friend!” Which was, all else aside, really nice to hear.

Goofy grins were really hard to swallow down when it came down to it. Then again, that was the advantage of voice-only calls. “You’re my best friend, too.”

There was a moment of companionable silence.

“Okay, so all that aside, what was it you were saying about getting the farm recertified at the beginning?”

Lance startled. He’d forgotten about his excuse to make the call; it seemed ridiculous in retrospect, especially considering how much Hunk loved their friends and weird science problems alike. “Oh yeah, that.”

“Yeah, that. It shouldn’t take too long, right? You’re already good to go, since you already passed your exam.”

Lance wrinkled his nose. “Barely.” He’d almost had a breakdown before the exam. Spending all of his already pitiful free-time on getting a Bachelor’s in agriculture would have gone to waste if he’d failed.

“Don’t say it like that,” Hunk said. “You passed! You’re here! Saying you ‘barely’ succeeded is like saying that this planet ‘barely’ supports life. Give or take one variable, and the whole thing falls apart, sure, but that’s a worst-case hypothetical; it doesn’t have anything to do with the reality of the fact that it’s staying together. It’s succeeding.” Hunk cleared their throat. “And so are you. You did exactly enough for everything to work, and now look at you: an accredited farmer.”

Lance shrugged. “I just hope my luck pulls through for a little bit longer. At least until I can get the farm up and running.” After all, he couldn’t ship anything off until there was an official document saying he could, and for that to happen, the farm had to be ready.

“You can do it, Lance,” Hunk said. “And if you ever need help, I’m here.”

Lance nodded to himself. “Thanks.”

The second after they’d finished bidding their goodbyes and had hung up, Lance puffed out his cheeks and sighed. One errand (kind of) done, plus the mystery of the parsnips solved, and he was already exhausted.

Taking a nap that early in the day would be a bad plan. An agonizingly tempting bad plan that beckoned to him with all of the cunning wiles a pillow nest could offer. Ugh.

Lance whacked his degrading willpower over the head with adult feelings of obligation and duty, and then, when that didn’t work, predictions about how bad he’d feel. After all, his clothes were already kind of dirty, so he’d have to change into his pajamas first because otherwise the sheets would get gross, and even _thinking_ about all the steps it would take was tiring him out. Besides, the thread-count of his sheets was mediocre at best. Hardly quality nap material.

It was better all around if he just sucked it up and started in on the rest of the day’s chores. Where to start was the real conundrum. Harvesting the parsnips, maybe? He wasn’t really able to sell anything yet, but he could eat some himself.

Then, after that, he could check to see if he had time to visit the store before it closed. Yesterday’s trip might have been a failure, but if he wanted to be able to plant more crops, he had to go seed-shopping.

 

* * *

 

 The door to the general store made some adorable old-timey chime sound when Lance opened the door, which improved not only his day, but the atmosphere of the surrounding five miles. The inside of the general store was just as typical small-town fare as the chime would imply: wooden drawers and baskets filled with produce off to the side, and cheap shelves crammed to full capacity front and center. The only thing that didn’t quite mesh with the rest of the picture was the advanced AI programming textbook the cashier was reading.

The cashier looked up at the chime, then back down to their textbook. With a resigned sigh, they pushed it away, refocusing their attention on Lance as he stepped further into the store. “Welcome to Holtovers,” they said. “Anything I can help you with today?” Their customer service voice didn’t quite match their expression, which was cycling through the seven stages of grief.

Lance paused. This was probably how veterans felt when they caught a glimpse of a soldier who was still trudging through the trenches. “Nah, I think I’ll be fine.”

The waves of sheer relief coming off the cashier were strong enough that Hunk could’ve charted data on them. “Alright. Let me know if you need anything,” they said, then immediately pulled the textbook back over.

After a few minutes of poking his head around and looking at stuff that definitely wasn’t what he was searching for, he found two of the swivelling pillars that tended to either hold sunglasses or seeds. Luckily, it was the latter, which should not have been disappointing in any way because sunglasses couldn’t be planted to make more sunglasses, even if they did look cool.

Trying to focus, Lance examined his options. He didn’t recognize the packaging for the seed packets, which was unusual, considering the plants were mostly familiar: potatoes, Ga’alusian springmoss, green beans, juniberries, and more. All of them were in packets so neon green that there was no chance of forgetting them after catching a glimpse.

Things began to click into place when he looked at the logo. An exact copy of the general store’s sign stared back at him.

“We design these ourselves.”

Lance jumped, dropping the seed packet. He swivelled to face whoever had snuck up behind him. “You almost gave me a heart attack, you— you ninja grocer!”

The cashier blinked at him. “Uh, wow. That is... certainly a form of address.” They shook their head, then picked up the seed packet. “Anyway, my brother, my dad, and I designed these seeds.” They looked at Lance, eyes narrowing. “In a controlled environment, by the way. We know how long each of these crops will take to produce on average, what kind of conditions are best for them, everything.” There was a weird note of challenge in their voice that Lance wasn’t sure how to interpret.

“I didn’t know there was any place around here with the kind of equipment stuff like that needs,” Lance said. “I mean, besides the Garrison.” Or their research department, anyway.

If anything, the cashier’s hackles rose even more. “The Garrison couldn’t even—” The cashier cut themself off, closing their eyes. “Trust me, we’re _very_ well equipped. A local resident helped us put together our own facility,” they explained, more calmly.

“Was it Hunk?” The words slipped out, but it wasn’t an unreasonable question. There were few enough people in the town that Lance could assume Hunk and Shay were the only ones around with the know-how to design something like that. Besides, Lance had the creeping suspicion that if the answer was yes, he already knew the cashier’s name.

The cashier paused, leaning back a bit. “Yes,” they said, dragging out the word. “Why?”

“Then you must be Pidge,” Lance said, nodding to himself. “Hunk and I were talking about your parsnip seeds this morning.”

“Really?” Pidge, whose squint had intensified with Lance’s guess at her name, perked up with sudden intensity. “Are you going to be planting them? Don’t get me wrong; Hunk’s property is fine for certain crops, but the soil’s too acidic to work as a feasible control with those seeds.”

“Uh, I kind of already did?” Lance raised his arms in something like a distant relative to shrugging.

“How long ago?”

“Four days?” There was an uptick to his non-question that shouldn’t have been there, but being interrogated by a cashier-turned-bioengineer wasn’t exactly something he’d been prepared to deal with, so he could cut himself some slack.

Pidge’s eyes lit up. “Are they ready for harvest?”

“Yeah,” Lance said, brows furrowing. “I harvested them this morning.”

“Excellent!” Pidge bounced on her heels. “Let’s go examine them!”

What.

“Or not!” Lance said, refusing to get caught up in the rhythm of whatever drum Pidge was marching to. “Aren’t you on shift?”

“It’s fine,” Pidge said, waving a hand. “I’m not supposed to be working today anyway.”

Rather than unpack whatever that obscure tidbit meant, Lance jumped to his next point. “I’m not done shopping!”

Pidge let out a sigh that reminded Lance of the kind he got from his siblings whenever he was taking too long in the bathroom. “Alright,” she said. “Grab whatever you’re going to plant, and I’ll check you out.”

So she said, but it wasn’t exactly easy to feel confident in his choices when the person who’d designed the seeds was staring at his back. Judging him. Judging his seed choices. Seedily.

“What were you breeding for in the first place?” Lance asked, unable to take the silence any longer.

“High yield and fast growth,” Pidge answered, grinning. “We designed them to take full advantage of the wavelengths put out by our friendly neighborhood mass of incandescent plasma.” Her grin diminished somewhat as her expression grey more thoughtful. “However, the tradeoff is that they’re a bit temperamental. They don’t do well in weather outside their growing season, so once the season changes, you can kiss ‘em goodbye. Especially with how extreme our seasons get, thanks to our good friend, axial tilt.”

Why did things always have to be trade-offs? Yeah, yeah risk and reward and all that, but why couldn’t there ever be exceptions? Like, hey, here’s this really cool thing free of charge, just for being a cool dude. Just once. That’d be swell.

“Katie, are you harassing a customer?” Someone who looked very much like a taller Pidge, but with shorter hair and glasses, poked their head out of the door at the back of the shop.

“No!” Pidge paused, then deflated, rolling her eyes. “Only a little. Besides, he’s Hunk’s friend, and he already decided he was buying, so I can’t run him off now.”

Not-Pidge rolled their eyes. “Alright. Holler if you want help closing up once you’re done.”

“Roger, wilco.”

Lance jolted at the unexpected use of prowords. Hearing them over the radio? Sure. Hearing them in the middle of a general store? As jarring as finding a bag of partially peeled potatoes in a public bathroom stall.

Off-balance, he grasped at any conversational rung he could use to hoist himself back onto stable ground. “Katie? I thought your name was Pidge.”

“That’s my nickna—” Pidge stopped mid-word, mouth agape. “I’ve been wearing my nametag! This entire time!” She underlined the badge with her hand.

“I was distracted by the seeds!” Lance threw up his hands, then shook his head. Whatever! In light of this new info, there was something more important to say.

“Happy birthday,” he said, abruptly. It was too bad he only realized _how_ abrupt it was when Pidge gave him a disconcerted look.

“How did you— Hunk?”

“Ah, no,” Lance said, pointing his thumb in the general direction. “I read the board out front.”

Pidge looked at him for a long second, then laughed. “Not what I expected. Most people don’t really check it, aside from Shiro, Allura, and Coran. Oh, and Hunk, but that’s a given.” She sucked in her cheeks, then blew them out. “Anyway… Thanks. For the birthday wishes.”

“No prob—”

“Although, the best birthday gift would be collecting valuable data, so if you could hurry up with the seeds, that’d be great.”

Lance groaned. Scientists: all the same; they used you for their data and then… became really supportive friends, historically. But still! Being rushed put a lot of pressure on a guy. There was no need to be so pushy.

“—that is, if you choose to use them.”

With a start, Lance realized that Pidge had started talking again. “Can you repeat that? Sorry, I was thinking.”

“I was saying that although this is clearly the superior option, you might have a bit of trouble finding buyers if you choose to use our seeds.”

Lance frowned. “Are they poisoned?”

“No!” Pidge glared. “They’re just too good.”

Uh-huh.

“ _Uh-huh_.” Lance raised his eyebrows and put his hands on his hips.

Pidge crossed her arms, puffing up self-righteously. “I’m being serious. They grow so fast and produce so much that corporations are afraid it’ll decrease the price of food across the board. Which is supposed to be a bad thing, I guess, if you care more about making the money sad than you do about feeding people.”

Her smile was more like a bitter smirk. “So! We can’t ship these crops off-planet, and any Galra- sponsored organization won’t buy from us.” She shrugged. “Of course, they can’t say outright that it’s because they’re afraid of people being able to afford food for once, so the official reason they’re blocking us in from all sides is out of concern for what the evil franken-vegetables might do. They have things like dihydrogen monoxide in them.”

Lance blinked. “You mean water?”

“Anything sounds threatening if you spin it the right way,” Pidge said, “and they pay their PR department enough to turn something as harmless as that into a goddamn shuriken.”

“Do shuriken even spin?” Lance asked. “I figured they were like throwing knives.”

“That’s not the point!” Pidge sighed.  “Point is, if you’re looking for profit, you might want to go with the boring old seeds that won’t get you the cold shoulder from most of your prospective buyers.”

Lance chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment, considering what he had saved up, then compared it to how much fixing up the farm would cost. Then he compared it to how much he hated his old employers and everything they stood for, and when he blinked back to the present, he was holding the seed packet. “Nah,” he said, “I think I’ll stick with these.”

A wide grin spread across Pidge’s face. “Good decision.” Then, as fast it appeared, the smile was replaced with an impatient expression. “Now hurry up and decide, slowpoke. I want to look at the parsnips while the light’s still good.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I researched so much and asked Two different friends who are much more informed than i am about space and i still know so little about how star systems work. I might be trained in biotechnology but space science is hard.
> 
> Also I promise Keith will appear soon. Not next chapter. But the one after that. Hope you enjoy your slow build


	4. If Community and Compost Have Anything in Common, It's That You Can Only Create Them By Getting Your Hands Dirty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Entire Spectrum of Human Emotion Exists on A Sliding Scale from 'Getting Mail at Eight in the Morning' to 'Ingesting Something Inedible' and the Absolute Center is 'Wandering Through an Abandoned Building'

Lance was getting more mail than he expected for someone who had just moved into town, and he wasn’t sure how to feel about it. As much as he would’ve liked to enjoy the attention, it was attention in the form of really, really weird letters that tended to be more cryptic than a bigfoot sighting. The fact that the letter he was holding was the first to actually come in an envelope was proof enough of that.

Lance flipped the letter over to read the return address, then grimaced. Galra Corp. He should have guessed that actual packaging was the mark of pure evil. No wonder envelopes were called what they were: they enveloped their recipients in despair. Like quicksand, but more intent on ruining Lance’s life.  

He held the letter as far away from his body as he could, pinching it by the very edge for good measure. It was probably something about how he was breaking employee code four-million-and-whatever by not being an employee anymore. Or a memo about how the corporation just bribed a politician to make happiness illegal. Or anthrax.

Although… His last paycheck had been smaller than usual. Maybe they’d screwed up the amount they owed and sent him the difference?

Ha.

Still, likely or not, checking wouldn’t hurt. Probably. Pulling up his shirt so it covered his nose, he opened the envelope. Inside was a brightly colored sheet of paper, that when unfolded, turned out to be a memo: generic, cookie-cutter, and cheery-looking. Lance hated it on sight.

“To our valued customers,” it started, promising Lance a headache and muscle strain from how hard he was rolling his eyes. Like he’d be caught dead buying anything from his old employers, even if their shopping center wasn’t on the clear opposite end of town.

“Our team members have removed the landslide caused by our drilling operation near the mountain lake.” The hell. “We’d like to remind you that our drilling operation is entirely legal (pursuiant to init. L61091, GalraCo Ammendment).” _The hell._ They really could get away with anything, couldn’t they?

Lance grit his teeth, his mouth pressing into a thin line. “Responsible stewardship of the local environment is our top priori—” _The hell it was!_

Hunk did their best every day, had been fighting for years to work with the environment as responsibly as they could, and Galra Corp had the nerve to drill at Hunk’s freaking _doorstep_ , cause a landslide, and wave it off with a ‘it’s legal so why not’? Then, they follow up with how much they ‘cared’ about the environment? It was— It was bullshit!

Lance crumpled the memo into a ball, then threw it away. At least it had served one purpose: he was buzzing with angry energy.

He strode towards the storage shed, then threw the door open. The bang it made against the side of the shed made him wince. Maybe that had been a bit much. Still, he just— He needed to be doing something.

He grabbed everything he needed to prep the soil for planting, then left the shed. If having a mile long to-do list had any advantage, it was that he could throw himself into something and not have to think for a while.

For once, Lance hoped that he wouldn’t be able to finish by the time it got dark; maybe then he could just collapse into bed and sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Lance had finished planting with time and energy to spare, proving that the universe was set on placing a never-ending trail of banana peels under his feet.

His muscles _did_ feel like rubber tubing filled with jello, but other than that, he felt fine. It was almost like hitting sunrise during an all-nighter, which was usually around the point where his body stopped registering sleep as essential.

Which, although abstractly worrying, meant that if Lance chose to climb into his bed at that moment, he’d stay awake for the next century.

Lance crossed to the porch steps, then flopped onto the second step from the top so he could more effectively lean back on his elbows: prime thinking position. Then he tilted back his head, looking for sky and instead finding roof. Which, he did appreciate; after all, the shade was nice after working for so long, and if he shifted even a little, the light would cut into his eyes for sure. Still, he kind of wanted to not be in anything approaching an enclosed space.

Restless, Lance started to scratch at the wood behind him for lack of a better outlet, then yelped. Right! Splinters! Still very much a thing!

He examined his fingers and screwed up his nose. The good and bad news were both sharing a lease in the absurdly visible, absurdly painful, and absurdly easy to remove affront to wood that was buried in his middle finger.

After exorcising the vengeful ghost of the tree that had seen fit to blame him for being turned into a porch, Lance decided he’d had just about enough quality bonding time with his house for the afternoon. It wouldn’t even let him stim in peace without attacking his innocent fingers.

The real question was what other options he had.

Lance blew a raspberry as he thought. He could visit Hunk, but he was pretty sure they were working today. He wasn’t really close enough to Pidge to just drop by without buying anything, and who knew whether she was working in the lab or the shop.

Lance drummed a rhythm into his thigh before it struck him like a thunderbolt: he could just _go_. He could just wander off and go wherever he wanted. He didn’t have to _be_ anywhere, so he could go anywhere. It was almost too much power for one man; infinite possibilities lay before him!

He stood up, then immediately sat down.

Oh god, he could go anywhere.

Exhilaration had taken all of three seconds to metamorphose into the long-absent anxiety of being trapped in a car as his mom asked what he wanted for dinner. If anything, it was worse, because Lance was the only person with any input, the only one who’d be affected by his choice. The only person who cared.

Lance took a deep breath, then propelled himself into a standing position, leaving the specter of his thoughts on the porch. So what if he was overwhelmed? Tons of things were overwhelming! All he had to do was narrow down his options.

Resolved, Lance walked a few steps away from his cottage, then closed his eyes and began to spin in circles. Once he was dizzy enough that it was impossible to tell whether he was vertical or horizontal, he stopped and pointed. After the world had ceased to spin around him, he realized he was pointing towards town. That’d do. If nothing else, he could at least window shop, or check out the nunvillary.

His route decided, Lance nodded to himself and started walking. Then, he stopped, remembered he was going into town, which meant _people_ , and groaned before walking back into his house to pull on his binder.

 

* * *

  

Nostalgia kind of sucked. It had taken Lance two hours of wandering around town to come to that conclusion, but the evidence behind it had built up steadily. The ice cream stand, abandoned until Summer, just poked at memories of arguing with Hunk and Gramps over whether each scoop of a neapolitan ice cream cone had to _be_ neapolitan, or if it had to be made out of one scoop of each flavor. Each bridge Lance crossed to navigate the town’s river was an exercise in reliving memories of collecting samples for some project of Hunk’s while griping about things that didn’t matter, like vague questions on a test, or some wannabe fighter pilot beating his score in a flight simulation.

Everything made Lance ache just a little. It was like taking a lunch break only to find out that his favorite sandwich place had shut down, or losing a tooth and feeling the gap of where it used to be with his tongue.

In any case, it was taking its toll. Lance was finally beginning to feel the consequences of spending so much energy, emotionally and physically, which would be great, if he weren’t a good twenty minutes from the farm. And that was if he ran. Which, no.

He groaned. If he remembered correctly, there was a fountain by the playground where he could take a breather before going home, but he’d have to climb stairs to get there. In all fairness, the stairs weren’t much steeper or more numerous than the steps leading to his cottage, but still! The principle of objects wanting to stay at rest took precedence over having to exert more effort than needed to get there.

Lance was about to find a more reasonably placed bench to rest his aching limbs, but then he spotted an unexpected figure climbing the Staircase of Vindictive Irony.

“Mayor Allura!” He called out without thinking.

She turned, squinting at him before brightening in recognition. “Oh, hello there, Lance.” She started to frown as he drew closer. “Are you quite alright? You look a bit shaky.”

“Fit as a fiddle!” That was to say: strung out. God, he was hilarious. “What are you up to?”

“I was delivering a message from Shiro to his brother, truth be told, but the visit concluded faster than I expected,” Mayor Allura said. “What with my new excess of free time, I was going to visit the old community center for a moment or two.” She paused. “And you?”

Lance perked up. The community center, if he remembered right, had not only one place to sit, but multiple. There it was: his oasis in a desert of ergonomically unfriendly options. “Just wandering around, really,” he answered. Then, as casually as he could manage, “Mind if I come along? It’s been awhile since I visited the place myself.”

The mayor stared at him for a second, then shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

Luckily, the walk didn’t take long, even if stairs were a crime against humanity and were conspiring with Lance’s binder to kill him once and for all. Soon enough, the old building came into view, as well as the far more important stone bench beside it.

“What an eyesore.”

Lance stopped mid-stride, staring at the mayor’s back with the stunned hurt of a dog that had just been told that the couch was off-limits. That was just— that was uncalled for!  Besides, how had she even seen him going for the bench, anyway!

“We used to call this place The Castle of Lions, though you wouldn’t think it deserved such a title, now,” Mayor Allura said, looking back at him, and oh, she’d mean the community center, hadn’t she? Right. That made more sense. “It was rather grand, back when it saw actual use. Always full of people. Now, it’s…” She gestured with her hand before bringing it to the bridge of her nose. “Now it’s this.”

As it stood now, the building looked as if it were falling apart. The slatted wood walls and stonework lions were overgrown with vines, and the clock face set above the entryway looked as if it had last worked sometime last century. Looks could be deceptive, though.

“I don’t remember it being this bad,” Lance said. “People still hung around here a few years back, right?”

Mayor Allura frowned. “If by a few years you mean almost a decade.”

God. Had it really been that long? Lance calculated the years since he’d graduated from the Garrison and blanched. The passage of time was one of the worst possible concepts to contemplate, right up next to pineapple on pizza and atmosphere so thin that it was impossible to take flight.

“How did it get like this?”  
  
Mayor Allura snorted. “Lack of funding, lack of interest; take your pick. Last time I attempted to petition for a revitalization project, it was shut down before it even reached an interest group.” She clenched her fists. “No one wants to channel precious funds into recreation. Never mind the fact that it’s the only access that some of our citizens have to things like art classes or day care, or that it’s our duty as members of the government to ensure that their needs are met!”

Mayor Allura shook her head, then deflated, her shoulder sagging. “It’s my fault for going into politics and expecting it to be a matter of knowing that I’m in the right, I suppose.” She laughed, but it didn’t sound happy. “I never was very good at compromising, I fear. Which… might be the issue.” Her eyebrows drew together. It didn’t sound like she was talking to Lance anymore.

“Galra Corporation has been hounding the town to sell them the land so that they can turn it into a warehouse. We could use the money, but I…” She stared long and hard at the building, as if she could see something else there, then shook her head. “Nevermind. Maybe it is time to compromise.”

“Maybe you don’t have to yet,” Lance said, and he really wished his mouth would consult his brain before moving because what could he _possibly_ have to say as a follow up to that?

The mayor startled, as if she’d half forgotten Lance was there. Then, in the space of a second, her full attention was fixed on him. “What do you mean by that?” The full force of Mayor Allura’s stare was terrifying; it felt like she could see Lance’s pulse and know if he was lying in the space between beats.

“Well,” Lance started, trying to drag the word out long enough for him to figure out what the heck he was trying to say, “sometimes when I’m making a big decision— not that I’m a mayor or anything, but just in general— it helps for me to put a condition down. Like, if a certain thing happens, then I’ll respond to that.”

Mayor Allura rested her chin on her fist for a long moment, considering. “You may actually have a point there,” she said.

“Hey, was the ‘actually’ necessary?” Lance complained, his mouth once again beating his brain to the punch.

“I think I’ll take that advice,” Mayor Allura said, ignoring him. “In this case…” She thought for a moment. “Let’s say that if Galra Corporation reports a substantial enough increase in membership at their local shopping center, I’ll admit that they’re contributing more to the community than the Cas— the community center is, and I’ll sell it to them.”

“I hope you don’t have to,” Lance said, earning him a thoughtful look.

“As do I,” Mayor Allura said, then sighed. “I apologize for keeping you so long. You probably had other business here than listening to me ramble on.”

There was no polite way to say that his other business had been finding a place to sit. “No, this was…” Nice? Not really. Interesting? That sounded like a polite-but-scathing restaurant review. “This was better than what I had in mind. I was just going to wander around and miss Gramps, honestly.” That’d do, and it wasn’t even a lie.

Mayor Allura’s expression softened. “I know exactly what you mean.” She paused for a moment, then continued. “My father used to bring me here whenever he had time to spare.” She looked as if she wanted to say something else, then changed her mind. “The door’s almost always unlocked, nowadays. If you want to have a look around, you’re welcome to it.”

“Are you not going in?” Lance asked, surprised.

“No,” Allura said, her smile not reaching her eyes. “Not today.”

There wasn’t really any other way to respond to that other than walking into the building, though Lance spared a final, longing glance at the bench. His butt would meet the promised land soon enough. For the moment, however, his priority was escaping the awkwardness of seeing his own nostalgia and grief reflected in the eyes of someone who actually had her life together.

The inside of the community center was even worse off than the outside. There were entire chunks of the floor missing, exposing the foundation, and every step resulted in a loud complaint from the bits of wood flooring that were still intact. The entire place smelled musty, and the air was thick with all kinds of potential lung problems. The fish tank in the corner, once full of marine life, was cracked and caked with grime. Worst of all, however, was the complete and total lack of chairs.

Why did the universe hate Lance personally.

Lance was about to leave, when he caught a glimpse of green out of the corner of his eye. However, when he turned, there was nothing there. Nothing but the empty, creepy hallway with peeling wallpaper, anyway.

Lance really hoped this wasn’t a ghost thing. The place was sad and creepy enough as it was, all wrapped in memories and choked with vines and dust; it didn’t need ghosts adding to the ambiance.

He sighed, rubbing at the back of his neck. It was weird, seeing the community center like this. The last time Lance had visited… He must have been with Gramps, waiting for him to finish up a woodworking lesson so that they could get dinner together. That was the usual routine, anyway.

The creak of wood brought Lance back out of his thoughts, and he startled. He’d walked to the crafts room without meaning to, running on autopilot. Looking around, he wished he hadn’t.

Gone were the paints, the loom, the tables and chairs. Instead, there was only torn up carpet,  an empty shelf, a few piles of lumber, and wait a second, what was with the weird gold thing in the middle of the room?

Lance crossed the room as quickly as he possibly could while still being careful not to fall through the floor. Then, once he reached the gold thing— now revealed to be a scroll that was somehow maintaining an unfurled position on the floor, like a limp plaque— he crouched down, careful not to touch it. He was _not_ risking getting cursed, thanks.

He decided he’d made a good call when he leaned in closer to read it and realized it was covered in indecipherable characters. Lance’d spent enough time as a cargo pilot to know that if someone left a message in a language he’d never heard of, the message wasn’t meant for him, and more than that, he was better off forgetting that the message ever existed in the first place.

Resolved, Lance looked up from the scroll, ready to leave, when he met eyes with what looked like an apple with eyes and limbs.

The apple looked at him.

He looked at the apple.

It squeaked and vanished in a puff of smoke.

Lance booked it to the door as fast as he possibly could because, nope, not dealing with that! He passed up nearly four different places to sit on his way home because as inviting as they may have been, they were far too close to the community center for his comfort, and not near as comforting as the warm embrace of his bed.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day began with the sound of knocking, which in and of itself would be unusual, even if the continuous pattern didn’t sound like someone was attempting to drum out a three part composition on Lance’s door.  

Lance sat in bed, staring blearily at the door with his blanket wrapped around him like a hooded cape. He’d made half an effort at getting out of bed, but once the knocking had continued past the thirty second mark, his priority had shifted to seeing just how long the aspiring entryway percussionist could keep going.

The answer turned out to be enough to keep knocking after a full three minutes, according to Lance’s phone, which meant the visitor had, for one, earned Lance’s respect, and for two, proved that the world would probably end before they left.

Lance considered answering the door still wrapped up in his blanket, then decided against it. To face an opponent this powerful, he would need actual people clothes. Jeans and a T-shirt didn’t project an inherent sense of ‘adult with control over his life,’ but they were still better than pajamas and a blanket cape.

Or so he thought, up until he opened the door to reveal someone wearing an actual cape, poised with both fists in prime knocking position. Distantly, Lance heard himself say, “Oh, we almost matched,” before his brain could take control of his mouth.

“Did we?” The figure in front of him looked Lance up and down, stroking their orange moustache in thought. “Interesting! I do try to put some effort into my appearance— some pizzazz, if you will. Only becoming for an individual in a respectable position!”

Whatever position they were referring to wasn’t readily apparent, unless they were referring to standing on Lance’s doorstep, which, last time he checked was lacking a dress code, much less one that required mandatory capes. “Uh huh,” Lance said, dragging out the sounds. “So what position would that be, exactly?”

“Ah!” The stranger blinked. “I forgot to introduce myself! Very remiss of me! Won’t happen again.” They bowed, sweeping their cape back as they did so. “Coran Hieronymus Wimbleton Smythe, medical officer by training, mechanical engineer by hobby, gorgeous man by fate, and the town’s chief specialist in controlled quintessence manipulation and usage by trade! Yes, I go by many names, but chief among them is the title of,” at this, he paused, then gestured grandly, flourishing his cape, “The Wizard!”

“Oh, yeah?” Lance said, his voice coming out with more challenge than he intended. “Well, my name’s Lance. Lance McClain. That’s the only title I need.” Well, that settled it. He’d let himself get antagonized by a self-proclaimed wizard; he was officially fifteen years old.

Weirdly enough, Coran didn’t look put off. “An excellent attitude to have! Letting your actions speak for themselves, I see! Although it is quite handy to let others know what you’re capable of, unless they’re your opponent. Then it’s better to let them underestimate you.” He tapped the side of his nose, then frowned.

“You don’t think of me as your opponent, do you?”

“Uh, No?” Lance was so off-balance that he was practically horizontal. “Unless you came here to challenge me to something?” On more familiar ground, he crossed his arms. “Which! If you did, I’d say not to underestimate me anyway!”

Coran nodded, resting his chin against his fist. “No need to tell me! I’m no stranger to the art of sizing up adversaries.” He dropped his hands. “However, there’s no need for that right now, so you can… what is it humans say? Keep your nose skyward? Something to do with some form of cranial structure at least.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” Lance said, “it’s way too early for antagonism.” He crossed his arms. “So, why _are_ you here?”

Coran stared blankly for a moment, then coughed. “Ah, yes!” His posture stiffened into parade rest, and he cleared his throat. “So! It has come to my recent attention that you’ve been investigating the old Castle of Lions, as it were.”

“Not really?” Lance replied, an uptick to his voice turning the fact into a question. “Yesterday was the first time I’ve visited in years.” And he probably had three new fungus colonies in his lungs to show for it.

Coran nodded. “And did you happen to see any…” He wiggled his fingers as if to indicate either something mysterious, or something with upwards of ten legs. Or both.

Lance had a bad feeling about this. “Centipedes?” He hedged, and boy had he never expected to ever say that word with such a hopeful inflection.

“I don’t think those are native to this planet, nor present enough to qualify as invasive, so I highly doubt that—” Coran cut himself off, shaking his head. “No, I was referring to the brightly colored fellows that tend to resemble fruit.”

“I was really hoping you weren’t going to say that.” Lance had been fine with adding ‘minor, harmless hallucinations’ to the symptoms list for his new meds. That, he could deal with. Actual ghosts that looked like apples? Considerably less fine!

Coran hummed. “Perhaps a visual aid would be helpful.”

“I’m actually good on that front, I think, and you’re not listening at all.” Is this what a conversation with Lance felt like? He offered a silent apology to Hunk as Coran withdrew a small, metallic device from one of his many pockets.

Coran tapped the device, and it unfolded into something like a stage made for dolls. He tapped it again, and there was a flash of light. Then, where before there had been nothing on the stage, there was the apple-like creature that Lance had seen in the community center.

“These are forest spirits— they call themselves the Junimo! Not sure why they’ve decided to move into the community center, but they’re no threat. In fact, I’d venture to say they rather like you, if they showed themselves to you!”

“They… like me?” Lance asked. He felt kind of flattered, despite how weird the whole situation was. One one hand, weird forest spirits. On the other, they liked him.

Even so, he refused to be distracted from the still unexplained components of the weirdness he’d just been introduced to, numerous as they were. He held up a hand. “Wait, so what was with the scroll thing?”

Coran furrowed his brow. “Scroll thing?”

“In the crafts room at the community center,” Lance explained. “There was a scroll, covered in some language I didn’t recognize.”

“Really?” Coran rested his chin against his fist. “Hmm… Wait right there; I’ll be back in just a tick.”

“Where would I—” Before Lance could finish his sentence, Coran had dematerialized with a pop.

What.

“ _W_ _hat_.” Lance didn’t have long to question what the heck had just happened, however, before Coran appeared once more.

“How exciting!” Coran rubbed his hands together, the junimo and stage no longer present to hold back the tide of his hand motions. “It appears the junimos have need of your service, Lance.”

“Why me?” Lance asked, then backtracked. “I mean, I get that I’m a pretty capable guy and all; who wouldn’t want my help? But, uh… wouldn’t someone like you be better at whatever it is they need? I mean, I can’t even read their scrolls in the first—”

“Oh, that won’t be an issue at all,” Coran said brightly. “Hold very still.”

“What?” Lance asked, but as soon as the word left his mouth, the world went white. The next instant, he was in a laboratory.

“Excellent!” Coran said, clapping Lance on the shoulder. “You made it in one piece! I was worried, what with you talking during transport. Now, where did I put that formula?” He started rummaging around in the shelves above the nearby desk, while Lance stared blankly.

“How did you just—”

“Scaultrite, quintessence, and some good old spit and vinegar! Or, no, that’s not the correct saying, is it?” Coran paused, raising his head for a moment to stare at nothing. “Spit and joint emollient? No, not that either. Terran sayings are so difficult. Highly refined nanomachines and hard work is a more accurate statement anyway.” He waved a hand, then returned to his search. “In any case, it’s very handy! Of course, I don’t have nearly enough energy to transport on a very large-scale, but I do what I can.” Coran made a triumphant noise. “Found it!”

Suddenly, there was a vial full of liquid that looked like compost being held between Lance’s eyes. “Drink this,” Coran urged.

“No? No!” Lance shoved Coran’s hand out of his face. “I don’t know what that is!”

“It’s a combination of essences that will make you more receptive to the mental link the junimos are attempting to forge with you, allowing you to understand the meaning of their language, if not the actual vocabulary. It’s not unlike tuning a radio to a certain frequency, really.”

“Oh, well, when you put it like that: no!” Lance crossed his arms. “I don’t even know what they need help with!”

“If only there were a way to resolve that issue,” Coran remarked, wiggling the vial.

Lance narrowed his eyes at Coran.  “You’re the one who said they needed my help! Why can’t you just tell me what they want?”

Coran sighed, then was silent for a moment. “They want your help to repair the community center,” he said, finally.

“Oh,” Lance said. “Well, you could have just said so.” He reached out and grabbed the vial. As he uncapped it, he mourned his fantasy of ever reaching the end of his to-do list. “Down the hatch, I guess,” he said, then downed the contents. A moment later he realized he probably should have asked Coran if there were any potential interactions with stimulants. A moment after that he decided he was never letting another mystery liquid near his mouth ever again because it tasted like mulch was performing an acrobatics routine on his tongue.

The next thing he knew, he was waking up on the floor, feeling like he’d just licked a pine tree, and Coran was hovering over him. “Ah, Lance! You’re awake! Now, tell me, can you read this?” A sheet of paper was unceremoniously shoved in Lance’s face.

Even after passing out, he couldn’t get a break. Unbelievable. Lance scanned the paper, which was definitely not written in any language he was familiar with. Which meant it was pretty freaky that he could understand the meaning of the script anyway.

“It says, ‘We, the Junimo, are happy to aid you. In return we ask for gifts of—’” Wait a second. Lance narrowed his eyes. “I thought _they_ needed _my_ help!” He challenged.

Coran clapped his hands together. “Well! They do! They need your help to help you help the town!”

Lance squinted at him, then pointed a single finger. “You are one wily old man.”

Coran made an offended noise. “I’ll have you know I’m barely six hundred! And I look rather spry for my age.”  

Grumbling, Lance returned to the scroll. It seemed like the junimos wanted some basic supplies to help with repairs, though how some foraged goods would help fix that mess of a crafts room was anyone’s guess.

“I guess it wouldn’t hurt to give it a shot,” Lance said.

A grin split Coran’s face. “That’s the ticket!”

“Yeah, yeah.” Lance rolled his eyes, then picked himself off the floor, brushing off his pants. “Speaking of tickets, can you do that whole teleportation deal and send me back home? After all of this,” he gestured, rolling his hand in a circle, “I could use a break.”

“Ah, yes!” Coran said brightly, nodding. “Not at all! I’m plum out of energy. Need to recharge before I can do any of that again. I’m afraid you’ll have to walk back.” He cocked his head. “However! Your farm should be to the direct North-West. Just walk past the lake and you’ll be there before you know it.”

It was official: the universe hated Lance and wanted nothing more than his eternal suffering.

 

* * *

  

It didn’t take long to gather up the first bundle of stuff the junimos asked for, which made the fact that they were asking for help even weirder. Daffodils weren’t exactly hard to find, nor dandelions, leeks, or wild horseradish. They could have just poofed into town, or the woods and taken as many as they wanted. Although, being about five inches tall would probably make the task a little harder. Still, if it was hard for them to find a leek, how were they supposed to help remodel the community center?

Despite his misgivings— and he had many— Lance wrapped up the gifts in the scroll, bundling them together. As soon as he’d twisted off the ends, a junimo appeared, causing him to startle and drop the bundle.

The junimo squeaked, catching it and stumbling a bit. After it stabilized, the junimo rattled the parcel, then, apparently pleased, carried it off as quickly as it could.

Well. That was anticlimactic.

Feeling a little bit cheated, Lance began to stand, only for something to slide off his lap and onto the floor. He froze, squinting in suspicion. He was sure there hadn’t been anything there a few seconds ago.

After an agonizing stalemate between his curiosity and his self-preservation instincts, he bent over, reaching for whatever it was that fell. Upon closer examination, it was revealed to be a packet of seeds and another scroll enumerating new requests.

“Huh,” Lance said. “Help them help you, huh?”

He bit the inside of his cheek.  It looked like he’d get compensation, at the very least, so it probably wouldn’t hurt to keep going along with junimos’ requests. Probably. Unless the spirits were secretly playing him like a kazoo, and Coran was in on it.

Still, no matter how Lance tried to keep it tamped down and manageable, there was part of him that was just… thrilled to be needed. The rest of him knew better, but that small, excitable cinder of a part refused to be snuffed out. Thus dissociated from the rest of the _reasonable_ emotions, it was that cinder that Lance was going to blame if everything slid into the toilet. _When_ everything slid into the toilet.

And if his hand closed a little too tightly around the seed packet, and there was just a little bit of hopeful anticipation stirring in his gut... well, that was the cinder’s fault too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty! And with that, we're finally ready to introduce Keith next chapter. After... 17K words... God. 
> 
> Anyway, if you're interested in behind the scenes commentary, updates on the fic's progress, and me complaining about being a parody of myself, my tag for this au is [here](http://dragonomatopoeia.tumblr.com/tagged/stardew%20au/chrono)
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me this long, and I hope you enjoy what's coming


	5. There's a Distinction Between Literally and Figuratively Splitting Hairs, and Only One Option is Forgivable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Given The Opportunity to Process What Was Actually Said, Local Man Chose to Continue Working with Script Already in Head

In retrospect, it made sense that having so much running water on the farm led to a lot of sediment, but hindsight's only actual function was making Lance feel bad about not being able to predict every inconvenience, ever. Sure, Gramps had complained about the rocks often enough, even if he’d been the one who’d bought the land in the first place. Still, Lance hadn’t ever actually taken the time to sit down and consider just how many pieces of stone he’d have to clear off his property. If he had, he probably would have cried, quit being a farmer, and walked into the sea to become one with the kelp because _anything_ would be better than the never ending monotony of breaking apart and clearing out debris.

At least the rocks weren’t completely useless. With as many as Lance gathered, he had a healthy surplus of smooth, flat stones he could use to craft a makeshift path when he had the time. Or, if he wanted to spend the next seven years sweeping all the little rocks into an orderly line, he could make his own gravel. Endless possibilities!

Too bad none of them were appealing. It was one thing for a job to be necessary and have some microscopic imitation of a reward, and another for it to be enjoyable. He didn’t exactly have motivation in spades anymore.

It had been easy to get excited when he was younger and didn’t know better. Lance was long past the days where he could be tricked into doing his chores by the thought of buried treasure, and the external pressure of Gramps’ potential pride or disapproval was gone.

Gramps used to swear up and down that there were secret treasures hidden on the farm, and Lance’s excitement had doubled when he found out that treasure meant rocks with ‘gems’ hidden inside. The field trip the treasure earned him to the local blacksmith, where the geodes could be processed, only sweetened the deal.

Lance could still remember the way it felt— almost like magic—  to drop off an unassuming egg of a stone and return to find smooth, polished crystal. He’d turn them over in his hands, rolling them between his palms as Mrs. Kogane patiently explained how such and such element in the crystal he was holding was used in fireworks, or the difference between sulfate minerals and oxide minerals. Then, without fail, she’d ask him if he wanted to donate the crystal to the museum next door. Lance’s first impulse had always been to take advantage of the rare absence of his siblings and keep the crystals to himself, but in the end, he always convinced himself that he could find a mountain’s worth of geodes later on, and that there wasn’t actually any need to hoard them to himself.

But Mrs. Kogane hadn’t been around since Lance was nine, at least, and by the time he’d come back to the farm for school, it took a lot more to motivate him than the barest possibility of finding some cool rocks. And, these days… well, it was a miracle he had enough motivation to do any work at all.

Lance blew out his cheeks, making a sound like an annoyed horse. Things would be so much easier if he could just switch on hyperfocus whenever he wanted. Was it possible to submit customer feedback to his brain? Like, hey, great job with the breathing and blinking, love that, but consider maybe less inattention and hyperactivity. Also more serotonin. That’d be fantastic.  

Although… that was kind of what what his meds were for, so: great job, Lance. Already on the case.

Realizing that he was getting distracted from work by thinking about work, Lance went back to rock duty. No matter how boring it was, it had to get done.

It took another half hour or so, but Lance did eventually find the rhythm of the job. Which, of course, was illegal according to the laws of the universe, what with the buried sub-clause of, ‘Lance McClain is hereby forbidden to feel any form of satisfaction, whether in relation to himself or his situation’. There was no other explanation for the fist-sized geode he discovered within moments of actually getting into the swing of things.

How was he supposed to care about boring, regular old rocks with the old childhood temptation of a mineral gachapon in his hands? Lance turned the geode over, imagining all the different kinds of crystals it could be hiding. He eyed the pickaxe on the ground, then squinted at the geode. Maybe he could…

The image of smashing the geode open himself was interrupted by the memory of smooth, tumbled minerals between his palms, which was unasked-for rudeness on his brain’s part. He sighed.

He _did_ need something to fidget with, and a cool rock with a good weight to it would be as good as anything. Besides, he’d seen smoke billowing out of the old forge last time he’d gone into town, so it must have reopened since his time at the Garrison.

He shrugged. Taking a break couldn’t hurt, and the blacksmith wasn’t far. What was there to lose?

 

* * *

 

On one hand, it made sense that a place where fire was a primary work material wouldn’t be too flammable. On the other hand, it was a surprise that no one living in the forge had up and died from heat exhaustion. Lance might not have had as good a grasp on engineering and architecture as Hunk, but he’d picked up enough to know that stone walls weren’t the best idea for thermoregulation. It wasn’t exactly a convenient set-up.

Then again, Lance lived in a one room cottage and had to go outside to turn his generator on every time he wanted to heat up some water, so: stone pot, meet electric kettle.

Lance walked up to the door, then paused. Although there were hours listed on the sign, and the forge was technically open for business, it was also someone’s home. Sure, the actual house part was in the back, and it wasn’t like Lance was going to walk right through, step into the bedroom, and root around, but it was still polite to knock on the front door, right? But it would be weird if he knocked on a storefront. And alarming.

Lance hesitated for a moment longer, which turned out to be the exact space of time needed for the door to swing open in his face.

“Shit, sorry,” the door-wielding assassin said, revealing themself to be less callous and bloodthirsty than first impressions would imply. “Didn’t see you there. You alright?”

Let it not be said that Lance wasn't a gracious, reasonable, and forgiving individual. “I might live to see tomorrow,” he conceded, rubbing his forehead. “For a second I thought Gramps was— **_You_** ** _!”_** He stared in horror at the person in front of him. It couldn’t be— Keith should have been light years away, getting medals and accolades and being a jerk _anywhere that wasn’t in front of Lance!_ He shouldn’t, couldn’t be the person standing in front of Lance, looking as confused and abstractly alarmed as a cat experiencing snow for the first time.

But it had to be. No one else in the galaxy had bad enough taste to grow their hair out into a mullet, even if it _was_ pulled back into a ponytail. Some hair crimes were unmistakeable.

“Me?” Probably-Keith asked, as if he was unaware of his heinous misdeeds.

“Yes, you!” Lance crossed his arms, then immediately unfolded them. He needed them to communicate the full spectrum of his contempt. “Why are _you_ here?!”

Keith’s face scrunched up, which was impressive, considering the last time Lance checked, the only parts of his face that moved were his eyebrows. “I… work here?”

“Since when!”

“Since— Why am I even—” Keith pulled a face. “Who _are_ you, anyway?”

 _“Who am I?”_ Lance narrowed his eyes at Keith, raising his hands in disbelief. “Lance? _Lance Mcclain?”_

No sign of recognition crossed Keith’s face, which, okay, it’d been a few years, but still! “We were in the same class at the Garrison?” Lance prompted.

Keith’s expression cleared somewhat, but just as quickly pulled into a frown. “Shouldn’t you be deployed, then? And not yelling at people in their front yard?”

“I could ask you the same question!” Someone who’d graduated top of their class, who had a guaranteed spot as a fighter pilot, someone who was on the fast track, while Lance was stuck swimming upstream through molasses— Someone like that shouldn’t just be walking through the same doorway, as if he was in the same position as Lance. “What are you even doing here?”

“I work here,” Keith said, his jaw set. “I’m the town blacksmith.” He crossed his arms. “And I was about to go on break, before someone started yelling and pointing,” he continued, as if any of the words he was saying made any sense at all, when he was _Keith_ : Keith, who had endless opportunities in front of him; Keith, who’d looked so pleased with himself in flight simulations because he’d beat his own score again; Keith, who couldn’t be a blacksmith because _he had to be a fighter_ _pilot_. He was always one step ahead; what other option was there?

“ —you need, or can it wait?” Keith had been saying something, apparently, but Lance had already heard enough.

“No,” Lance heard himself say, despite the endless buzz of questions overlapping and running together in his mind. “I don’t need anything from you.” And with that, he turned, and didn’t look back.

Lance didn’t even remember the geode until he got home.

 

* * *

 

Lance didn’t think about Keith, or cargo piloting, or wasted years and trashed ambition. He didn’t sit and stare out the window as it rained for the umpteenth time. He definitely didn’t sulk. Anyone who claimed otherwise was a liar and also a creep who watched people do perfectly normal, not-sulking activities in the rain.

One such _extremely mature_ activity was fishing. He’d even caught enough that he could afford to give two of them to the junimos, when they asked. There was something nostalgic about fishing in the rain; it reminded him of Gramps, and the way he’d draw out schedules and charts to keep track of when, exactly, certain fish were active, which tended to be whenever it was dark and wet and inconvenient for Lance.

After two days of rain and stockpiling fish, however, Lance was bored. He didn’t have to water his crops, so that was out, and he got weird looks when he went wandering around in the rain. That left sitting in his house and refreshing his email a thousand times— unwise, considering how fast his phone battery drained, data charges, and how much work firing up the generator was— or visiting Hunk.

The clear winner was the option with the greatest potential for hugs and conversation. Plus, there was no way Hunk didn’t have at least eight kinds of hot chocolate— not hot cocoa, but real, honest-to-god, melted chocolate and milk and _cloves_ — and two days into a spring storm was the perfect time to break their stash open.

Resolved, Lance set off for the path to the north of his farm. Usually, a trail that was practically vertical would qualify as one of Lance’s least favorite shortcuts, but the fact that it led to Hunk’s house did a lot to improve its standing.  

Nestled on top of a cliff shelf, the house was right in front of the base of the closest mountain, and was about as sturdy, too. Of course, Hunk and Shay wouldn’t have settled for anything less. They’d poured years into its design, making sure it had as little impact on the land around it as possible. For a while, Lance couldn’t go two days without getting pictures and blueprints with captions about how proud Frank Lloyd Wright would be, or how they’d started incorporating 3D printing into their construction techniques. Still, even with forewarning, the sight of the building took a minute or two to process.

The building looked almost as if it had been hewn out of the mountain itself, slate grey with jutting balconies and windows, stone turning into cement and back again. It looked like it was made to be there, as if it had _always_ been there, taking form as the land around it had been scraped away. With unfocused eyes, the house could blend right into its surroundings, especially with the clouds painting the sky grey behind it.

A wave of affection and second-hand pride washed over Lance, and as it receded, it drew out an admittedly watery smile. Which might have been embarrassing in an alternate universe where Hunk didn’t cry twice as much as Lance did in any given situation.

What had Lance ever done to deserve a friend like Hunk, honestly? They had a mysterious ability to make every situation more bearable, even when the most they could manage was a call—

Lance stopped still. A call. One level above a text on the social energy scale, but still an essential component of the friendship maintenance tool box. One that Lance was apparently incapable of remembering the existence of until he was three feet deep into a swamp of poor decisions.

He covered his face with his hands, letting out a sigh of self-frustration heavy enough to sink to the bottom of the Marianas Trench. Usually when people visited their friends, they texted ahead, or called, or did anything other than showing up on doorsteps unannounced like a complete and total tool. Which had been the plan! It was a good plan, too, and its one and only flaw was that Lance _was_ a complete and total tool! Who couldn’t remember anything to save his life! Because his brain hated him and wanted him floating in the recesses of space, friendless and—

“Lance?”

— isolated to atone for his inability to—

“Buddy, please come out of the hand cage.”

— complete simple tasks. Honestly, it was a surprise that—  wait, someone was touching his hands. Who was touching his hands?

“Not that it’s not great to see you,” Hunk started, peeling back the shame barrier, “especially since I just decided to go on break, which would be even better with my best friend’s company,” they said, then looked askance at the figure next to them. “Not that you’re not already great company, Shay,” they backpedaled, “but seriously, Lance, I’m kind of concerned about why you’re standing out here in the rain with your hands over your face.” Hunk looked past Lance’s shoulder and winced. “Not to mention that the trail up here’s already steep enough that you’re practically walking along an asymptote, even without the runoff trying to carry you off.”

“Relax, Hunk,” Lance said,waving off their worries, his brain racing at the speed of light to scrounge up an answer, “I just thought I’d come by for a visit.”

“So you could stand here and hold your face?”

“Just trying to spare your house’s ego. It’s so pretty, it might see my handsome face as the latest competition,” Lance joked. Well, deflected. But the two were interchangeable as long as no one else noticed, so it was fine.

In any case, it was time to change the subject to literally anything else.

“Speaking of all things beautiful, you must be Shay,” Lance said, redirecting his attention to the Balmeran standing next to Hunk. Internally he winced. So much for maturing; old habits died hard, and cheese only got riper with age.

Luckily, Shay didn’t seem to mind. Or she’d been warned. “It is good to meet you, Lance,” she said, smiling. “Hunk has told me of how interesting your mannerisms are, but I was unprepared for such amusement so early in our acquaintance!”

“Uh, yeah, that’s me! Call me Mr. Amusing,” Lance said, then shot a betrayed look at Hunk.

“Is your last name not McClain?” Shay asked, bemused.

“Yeah, sorry,” Lance apologized. “That was a joke. Nice to finally meet you, Shay.”

“Ah! Humor!” Shay lit up, which was three flavors of refreshing for someone confronted with Lance’s idea of a joke. “A useful tool!” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “Though I see no hilarity in stating that which is not true, I appreciate how it alleviates Hunks mood in times of great distress.” She smiled at Lance. “Which, for them, is a common occurrence,” she added, her voice conspiratorial and fond.

“Hey! No gossiping about Hunk without me,” Hunk said. “I have opinions that need to be aired.”

“You gossiped about Lance without me!” Lance wrinkled his nose. “Whatever happened to friendship! Confidentiality! The sacred bonds between ex-roommates!”

“Sorry, Lance, but that kind of went up in flames the second you called me to say you were handcuffed to a tree, even after I said you were on speaker and that Shay was in the room.”

“You could have turned speakerphone off, and I was _handcuffed_ to a _tree!_  What was I supposed to do? Hang tight and call you later?”

“Okay, fair, but _you_ try answering the phone while holding a hundred and thirty pounds of concrete and see how well it works out.” Hunk crossed their arms, pausing for a moment. “The answer is not very well.”

Shay laughed, stopping Lance’s reply before it could form. “Worry not,” she said, her voice warm, “Hunk speaks of your antics not to embarrass you, but to express concern. Joyful were they to hear of your coming; they feel it is easier to watch over you this way.”

It took a moment to process the conflicting emotions and identify them, but Lance eventually settled on lumping them together under the umbrella of ‘choked up’. “You were worried about me?”

“Uh, duh?” Hunk rolled their eyes. “You’re my best friend in the world, and I love you,” they said.

“Aw, buddy!” Lance hugged them. “Love you too.” He withdrew, rocking back on his heels. “Also, sorry about the whole showing up unannounced thing.”

“You are always welcome here,” Shay said, her tone brooking no room for argument.

“Exactly,” Hunk seconded. “I mean, I lived with you for years, man. It’d almost be weird if you didn’t have free rein of the house, y’know?”

If Lance felt one more emotion he was going to burst. “Thanks, pal.”

“Of course.”

There was a moment of silence, paving the way for one of the worst situations in all of human knowledge: the conversational lull following an emotional discussion. Latching onto anything to slow or stop its approach, Lance scrambled for the first topic change he could think of. “So! Why were you two out in the rain, anyway?”

“Well, like I said, we were about to take a break from work,” Hunk said. “We wanted to see if Galra Corp. actually, y’know, followed through with the whole ‘promising to clear out the entrance to the mines’ thing. It took forever to get them to admit it was even their fault. Which, I guess makes sense, ‘cause they’re evil and everything, but still, you’d think that even evil would take a break to go, oh shoot, my bad, sorry that my evil had consequences leaking all over the place. Like, I wouldn’t expect them to fix it without external pressure, but if they were done pretending not to be awful, you’d think they’d at least want to gloat about inconveniencing us instead of acting like it never happened.” Hunk’s face crumpled up in thought. “Where was I going with this?”

“Mines,” Lance supplied.

“Right!” Hunk brightened. “Although…” They checked their phone and winced. “Yeah, that’s about what I figured. We kind of just spent our entire break chatting.”

“Oh crow,” Lance said, brows knitting together. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“I’’m gonna stop you right there, bud,” Hunk interrupted. “When have I ever not wanted to spend time with you? And that time you got soda on my textbook doesn’t count.”

“Have no fear,” Shay said. “This conversation was far more enjoyable than an investigation of the mines would have been. After all, leisure is best when shared by many; the word ‘company’ insinuates as much.”

“I mean, that does make me feel a little better, but I still bad for cutting in and stealing your dance with the mines,” Lance said.

“Pretty sure that simile only works if you ditched us for them instead of the other way around,” Hunk replied. “Which… might not be a bad idea? If you want to, anyway.”

Lance squinted. “If I want to dance with an abandoned mineshaft.” The question came out flat.

“No!” Hunk barked out a laugh, surprise drawing out the sound. “I was saying it’d be nice of you to investigate for us while we worked.” Hunk’s eyes popped wide. “I am _so_ not trying to pressure you or guilt you into this, by the way! Don’t feel like you have to do it, or like I’m expecting you too. I’m absolutely cool with you hanging around while we work, too, if you want to. Although!”

Hunk’s face scrunched up. “You know my ground rules, but Shay has her own work station etiquette, so you might want to clear it with her if you go into her lab, and I could probably make you a guide if you wanted, since I know remembering all the details can be—”

“Hunk,” Lance interrupted, placing his hands on Hunk’s shoulders. “It’s fine. I’d feel weird lazing around like I’m on vacation while you guys worked anyway.”

Hunk squinted. “Who are you, and what have you done with Lance?”

“Hey!” Lance bristled.

“I’m kidding.” Hunk ruffled Lance’s hair, prompting a well-deserved eyeroll. “Be safe in there, alright? And don’t go too far in; it hasn’t met safety standards in, well, ever.”

“Alright, alright,” Lance agreed. “Now can you stop messing with my hair? The rain’s already screwed with it enough.”

“Not a fan of the helmet hair look, huh?”

Lance let out a horrified squawk. “Don’t _tell_ me!” As long as he didn’t know it looked bad, it was still the best it ever looked! The quantum uncertainty was the only thing giving him any peace of mind! He pushed his hand back through his hair, hoping it would mitigate the damage.

Hunk cocked their head, looking thoughtful. “Avant garde,” they said, finally. “It’s very Albert Einstein. I like it.”

“Don’t… don’t say anything else,” Lance said, defeated. This was his life now. The life of someone who used to have good hair.

“Sorry,” Hunk said, holding up their hands. “I thought I was helping.”

Lance sighed. “I appreciate the effort.” He shook his head. “Now, speaking of helping…” He made shooing motions. “Let me do my thing. Go back inside and work on your eighty-seven experiments.” They were probably time-sensitive experiments, too, if the way Hunk’s anxiety was almost physically taking form was any indicator.

“Be careful,” Hunk reiterated. “I wasn’t kidding about it being dangerous.”

“If need be, I can help excavate you,” Shay said, scarily sincere. “I would rather it not come to that, however.”

“I’ll be careful,” Lance promised. He was used to Hunk’s anxiety running wild, but Shay’s concern made him pause. Still, he’d be in and out within two shots of a Weblum’s laser. How bad could it be?

 

* * *

 

Very bad. Very bad was the answer.

Yeah, the mine’s entrance was fine: spacious, damp, dark, open to the public, everything a cave-like structure should be. It just happened to be playing host to the embodiment of wasted potential! Of course! Of course Keith had to be there just when Lance showed up. Spiteful jerk

Keith barely looked up when Lance walked in before he went back to staring at the floor. He didn’t even have the manners to acknowledge Lance’s presence, instead deciding it was much more fun and cool to just stand there and emanate waves of— of _Keithness_!

Still, Lance was a mature adult, and he felt no need to stoop down to some childish attempt to make him feel bad, or whatever Keith thought he was doing. He’d investigated enough; he could just turn around, report back to Hunk and go home.

Resolved, Lance tamped down his emotions with all the finesse and stoicism of a nine-year-old told to put their shoes back on, and asked, “What are _you_ doing here?”

Well, that was mature. Very smooth. Definitely not something a grade schooler would ask someone sitting in their favorite part of the sandbox. Way to go, Lance.

Keith turned, his eyebrows knitting together. “My _job?”_ He drew out the word like he was explaining something extremely obvious, and Lance bristled. Like that was the logical conclusion!

“What do you mean?”

“I’m a blacksmith. Which means I work with metal,” Keith drawled, as slow and condescending as a college professor babysitting a kindergartener. “The mine’s been abandoned for years, so if I don’t go looking for ore myself, I won’t have any,”

“Why bother?” Lance snapped. “It’s not like there’s much use for blacksmithing anymore, anyway.” Especially not when Keith had come between Lance and whatever was inside his geode; the jerk had soiled his own, lone claim to relevancy. Seemed to be a running trend.

Keith didn’t even have the decency to look properly angry, instead looking perplexed with only the barest tinge of frustration. “Of course there is? Especially in this town.” He looked like Lance had told him the alphabet wasn’t real, all flat disbelief grounded in the security of common knowledge.

But! Lance wasn’t common and his knowledge wasn’t either, so Keith could take a long walk off a short dock. “What do you mean, ‘especially in this town’?”

Keith blinked at him, then, inexplicably, relaxed. “You haven’t lived here long, have you?” Without giving Lance a chance to respond because he was rude, arrogant, and possibly some sort of demon, Keith continued. “Anything shipped to us is either low quality or overpriced, since Galra Corp controls trade in and out. Only way for us to get a fair deal is by making things ourselves.”

“Ugh.” A familiar song: second verse, same as the worst.

“Yeah,” Keith said, and no! Who gave him the right to second Lance’s displeasure! No agreement allowed! “So, yeah, if you need anything that won’t break the first time it’s used, then—”

“I’ll make it myself. Got it.”

Keith’s brows knit together. “I was gonna say you should stop by the forge, since I have the equipment to actually, y’know, make things. Seems like that’d be easier for everyone.”

Lance laughed, a sharp, bitter bark. “When have _I_ ever taken the easier way out? But wait!” He clapped his hand to his forehead in mock shock. “You wouldn’t know that, would you? You don’t even remember who I am!”

“What does that even—” Keith spread his arms in confusion. “What are you even talking about right now?”

Lance grit his teeth. Yeah, he’d had enough of this. Turning on his heel, he stalked out of the mines, ignoring the surprised voice behind him. Screw Keith, screw his forge, and screw ‘easy’. Lance was going to have a grand old time making things harder for himself, and no sanctimonious jerk with a bad haircut could stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: Stella drew fanart for this chapter here and i'm dying. [look at it. i've been staring at this for eight hours now. ](http://obstinaterixatrix.tumblr.com/post/169919705754/been-meaning-to-draw-this-scene-from-ch-5-of)
> 
> He's Here.
> 
> It never ceases to amuse me how Lance can construct an entire combination obstacle course-labyrinth of alternate motives in his mind while Keith thinks it's a straight shot from point A to point B. 
> 
> Also! Sorry for the slower updates recently; I got a new job and have had less time to write.
> 
> As always, thank you Stella for editing and also my life


	6. There's Something to Be Said About How Picking at a Wound Keeps it from Healing, But If You've Got a Pickaxe and a Grudge What Else is There to Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emotional Transparency Comes with A Free Trial, Wherein The Trial is Your Inability to Confront Your Emotions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to take a quick moment to reiterate that the characters in this AU have been given roles based on their aptitudes, not any similarities in personality they may have with certain stardew characters. I say this because Keith is very much Keith, which means that he’s absolutely nothing like Clint from Stardew Valley. One of the differences is that I like Keith; meanwhile, a friend and I have a ritual where we will give Clint sap twice a week in the vain hope that he will hate us one day. We maxed friendship with him by mistake, so this is an impossible task, but I like the image of a farmer walking into the forge and wiping their sap covered hand on Clint’s apron before wordlessly walking away.

The thing was, the mines were technically fair game. Structurally unsound, potentially deadly, and _damp_ game, sure, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that making terrible decisions down in the middle of an abandoned mine was a fundamental right owed to anyone who lived in an area with sufficiently vague property laws.

Therefore! There was nothing stopping Lance from proving that Sir Condescending of the Royal Order of Arrogant Butt-faces didn’t have a monopoly on the mines, or metal, or making things. Nothing but a service elevator that had to be activated manually, and a never ending tide of rocks waiting to be broken open, anyway.

Still, as much fun as swinging a pickaxe wasn’t, it was worth it to prove Keith wrong. Besides, knowing that Lance could quit anytime he wanted made it feel like less of a chore, and finding more ore than he expected had the same thrill that finding geodes had, if geodes were about three hundred times more common.

For once, motivation to bust open rocks wasn’t that hard to find. Which of course meant that whatever cosmic force responsible for punishing Lance for his existence _had_ to get rear its head, and it was getting creative too, considering there was no other possible explanation for _angry slime creatures that wanted to kill him._

The first entry on Lance’s list of gross slime observations was the disgusting sound the slime monsters made as they moved, like mayonnaise being scooped out of a jar and flung at the floor. The second thing was that they were acid green, fluorescent, and _throwing themselves at him._ Which! Wouldn’t be a problem if they didn’t burn his skin on contact!

So! That was great! How kind of Keith, in all his infinite wisdom, to warn Lance that there were bloodthirsty, sentient slimeballs in the mines that liked to fling themselves at people and give them chemical burns! Oh, wait, that was right: _he hadn’t._

Fortunately, Lance was a master of the hasty retreat, and he still managed to get more ore in one trip than Keith probably got in five. However! That didn’t change the fact that he’d been attacked by slime! _Slime_! The last time anything close to that had happened, he’d been flying cargo through disputed space!

It was almost enough to make him question whether hoarding ore was even worth it. After all, it wasn’t like he had a furnace to smelt it with.

Then again, that was a minor complication in the grander scheme of things, and there wasn’t much else he could do while it was still raining. Besides, the junimos had looked so excited when Lance had told them he’d started exploring the mines; it’d be a shame if they started asking for stuff that Lance had given up on finding.

Most importantly, if he quit, it would mean Keith had won, and that was an ethical atrocity that could not stand.

 

* * *

 

Lance was beginning to wonder whether people left letters instead of emails in order to establish a certain kind of anonymity. An email address was kind of required to send messages electronically, after all; meanwhile, the town was small enough that any need for a return address could be bypassed by cramming a letter or package straight into the recipient's mailbox.

Still, as foolproof as that might have been in theory, Lance had more common sense than a concussed squirrel, and he could recognize his best friend’s handiwork when he saw it. No one else would have sent him instructions detailing how to build a simple backyard foundry.

Lance was dialling Hunk’s number before he’d even skimmed halfway through the packet. Friends didn’t let friends do really cool favors without acknowledgement, no matter how sneaky Hunk was trying to be about it.

“You!” Lance said, as soon as the line connected.

“Me?” Hunk answered, their voice muffled, but tone indulgent.

“Yes, you.” Lance sighed. “Y’know, there’s no need to constantly reaffirm your standing as best pal in the universe. It’s just overkill at this point.”

“No clue what I did to deserve this, but I’ll accept it anyway,” Hunk said.

“Uh-huh. I’m sure you have absolutely nothing to do with the blueprints in my hand.” Lance rolled his eyes, grinning fondly. “I’ll be honest, though; it’s kinda embarrassing that you noticed me scrambling around the mines so much. I thought I was being sneaky.”

“Uh, well.” Hunk’s voice pitched up in confusion. “You were, probably? Because I have no clue what you’re talking about.” They paused for a beat, and Lance could almost hear the whirr of their brain processing new information.

“Wait, you’ve been going into the mines? Lance!” Hunk sounded way too disappointed and concerned for someone who should have long since moved into grim acceptance of their friend’s reckless decisions. “The place is falling apart, and most of the species that live there are actively hostile to hominids.”

“I know that _now_ ,” Lance said. “And I’ve been careful!”

“Not sure if I believe that,” Hunk grumbled, but Lance had already moved on to the much more pressing issue at hand: the one that wouldn’t end with him mired in friendly concern.

“Okay, so…” Lance pinched the bridge of his nose with his free hand. “I don’t— If you weren’t the one who sent me these instructions—”

“Nope. Although, if you want to build something, I’m always up for group projects.”

“That’s not—” Lance shook his head. “Thanks, buddy, but I’m more concerned about the source than the project, right now.”

“Okay, yeah. Getting weird instructions out of nowhere would be, uh... yeah.” Hunk was silent for a moment. “Where’d you get them anyway? Email? Mail, mail? Hidden in a bouquet and dropped on your porch with a coded message in flower language?”

“Mail, mail,” Lance confirmed. He frowned, looking down at the packet. “Do you think my mailbox is cursed, or does the post office just hate me personally?”

“I mean, probably neither, but I do think you’ve gotten more use out of your mailbox in a week than I have in half a year.”

Considering that was only about eight weeks on this planet, that was… still an impressive comparison, really, but whatever! Lance refused to be impressed by a loosely organized postal conspiracy to make his life more difficult! Or, considering the end-results, more convenient, but whatever. The distinction was negligible.

“Did anyone else know that you’ve been hanging around the mines?” Hunk asked, and oh no. Oh, no, that was not the train of thought Lance wanted to follow because it was too logical and straightforward, and it only had one stop, but Hunk kept going. “I’m not sure how many people would make the jump from, ‘wow, Lance must really like creepy, abandoned places that could easily kill him,’ to ‘Lance must want some blueprints for…’” Hunk trailed off. “Actually, I don’t know what connection to make here, either. What are the blueprints even for, anyway?”

A foundry. A DIY metal foundry. Something that a jerk with his own forge could probably make in his sleep. “A challenge,” Lance said.

“Uh, what?” Hunk asked.

“I’ll call you back, Hunk. Thanks.”

“You’re— you’re welcome? Lance?” Lance felt guilty as he disconnected the line, but Hunk shouldn’t have to deal with the mass of writhing, angry emotions swirling in Lance’s gut, and Lance couldn’t be sure that he wouldn’t accidentally snap at them if the conversation continued.

He glared at the packet in his hands. So this was Keith’s move, huh? If Lance wanted to prove he could make his own tools, then prove it, right? Keith was probably hoping Lance would crawl back, admitting defeat once he figured out how hard it was.

Well! The joke was on him! Lance would prove he didn’t need anything from Keith, and he’d do it so well that Keith would be the one to admit defeat! How about that!

Resolved, Lance marched into the cottage to grab his mining gear. He was going into the mines, and he wasn’t coming out until he had enough ore to gild the town twice over. Then, once he’d stocked up, he’d build the best foundry anyone had ever seen, and melt all of it down into enough metal that he’d never have to see Keith’s arrogant face ever again.

 

* * *

 

The mines existed outside of time, in a way. Without the sun, it was impossible to judge where the day ended and where evening began. Candlelight always looked the same, no matter what hour it was, and Lance’s phone had died...an hour ago? Two hours? A while.

The only real indication of how long Lance had been down in the mines was the way his muscles were burning. Annoying, but not unbearable. Besides, at least there was sensation there; the timelessness of flying through void with no objective other than freighting a million paper cups from Point A to Point B had been way worse.

Still, he was beginning to think it might be time to head back up to the surface, considering he was starting to get a killer headache and _wow, that was a loud sound_.

Lance brought his hands up to his ears to cover them, then realized they were empty, which meant… Ah. His pickaxe was laying on the ground, which explained the sound, now that he thought about it.

He shook his head, then winced as it made his headache worse. Okay, that sealed it. He’d just pick up his stuff and head back home. He could just come back tomorrow if he needed to.

As Lance bent over to grab his pickaxe, a wave of dizziness swept over him, and black crept around the edges of his vision.

“Oh,” he thought he said, but the only thing he heard was a sustained, shrill pitch as he tipped forward. “That’s not good.”

 

* * *

 

It could have been a moment or an eternity before reality came back into something resembling focus, if focus was blurry, shaky, and black at the edges. In any case, it had to be reality, since Keith would never show up in Lance’s dreams.

Keith looked upset, which fuck. Lance didn’t have the energy to deal with an ‘I told you so’. Not when the ground below him was so hard and cold, and not when his muscles were shaking, and especially not when Lance was barely on speaking terms with consciousness.

So Lance decided to end the relationship all together and slip back under, where there was a surplus of rest and absolutely no Keith to be found.

For a moment, before he lost consciousness altogether, he thought he felt a kind of phantom heft, where he was moving without any input from his limbs. Then there was nothing.

 

* * *

 

The next time Lance woke up, the ground was way more fluffy and smelled kind of like a seasonal candle. He still felt awful, but it was contained. Like a dumpster fire in an abnormally clean alleyway. He yawned, stretching into the unexpected comfort.

“What were you thinking?” Keith’s voice disturbed the momentary peace as easily as a rock tossed into a pond, and with it came a sudden wash of confusion. Lance had been in the mines, last time he’d checked, which this place definitely wasn’t.

However, that could wait for a time when Keith wasn’t being awful in Lance’s general periphery. Lance tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but by the time he’d hoisted himself into proper defensive position, Keith was already stalking out of the room. Oh yeah, real mature, walking out before hearing out the person he just questioned and judged without due process. He probably thought he was so cool, being Mr. Jury McJudgerson. What a jerk.

Lance snorted, flopping back onto the bed. Then, he froze, struck again with the question of where the heck was he, anyway?

“Lance!” Hunk rushed into the room, pushing any potential Lance panic well aside. Any other concerns took an immediate backseat to his highest priority: figuring out what was wrong with his good buddy, considering Hunk looked like they were on the edge of tears. “Hey, Hunk,” Lance said, and wow, was that really his voice? Awful. It sounded like he’d been gargling with flour.

Lance cleared his throat. “What’s up?” He asked, managing to polish the words into less of a croaky affront to sonic satisfaction.

“What’s— Lance!” Hunk shook their head. “No, nope, I’m not… I’m not doing this. I’m not beating around the bush this time, Lance,” they said, which wasn’t fair at all because Lance _liked_ the bush. The bush was great! And fine where it was, standing between Lance and the consequences of his actions.

Hunk reached out and ruffled Lance’s hair, face screwed up in what looked to be a battle between seven competing emotions. “I’m so mad at you!” They said, finally, and it was worse because they didn’t sound mad; they sounded concerned and disappointed, which was way worse. “I’m so _mad_ at you,” they repeated. “I warned you about the mines, Lance! If Keith hadn’t been working down there today, you could have…” They trailed off, then pressed the heels of their hands to their eyes, and wow, Lance had really screwed up this time, huh.

“Hunk, I—”

Hunk shook their head again, a quick, jerky movement. “You didn’t even bring anything down there to defend yourself with, or snacks, or even— Lance, you didn’t bring a water bottle. A water bottle. No wonder you passed out.” They heaved a deep breath, looking like they were at the crest of a roller coaster and gearing up for a drop.  “And I told you, I _told_ you, that there are things down there that want to hurt you, and you still went down there anyway without anything to protect yourself, and I just… Did you not care?” Hunk bit their lip, fists clenched in their lap. “You should. You should care about yourself. And if you don’t, then I want you remember that you have other people that care about you until you can.”

“Okay, buddy, let’s rewind a bit here,” Lance said, trying to sit up. “I promise this isn’t, like, some dramatic depression thing. It was just me making bad decisions, no input from garbage brain necessary.” Although, it was kind of garbage brain adjacent, what with the cocktail of resentment that had started brewing as soon as Keith walked into the picture. But whatever! They were two separate issues. Most likely.

Hunk didn’t look convinced. “Why wouldn’t you at least tell me what you were going to do, Lance?” They stared down at their hands. “You could have died,” they said, voice too small and sad for someone so like sunshine, and God, Lance had really fucked up.

“Oh no. Oh no, buddy, c’mon.” Lance pleaded. “I just… thinking kinda took a backseat for a while, and that left the wheel open for impulse, which tends to be a pretty awful driver, and…” Lance blew out a breath. “It was, uh, kind of a carousel of bad decisions, and I should have listened to you, but I didn’t, and that was my bad.”

Hunk frowned, then opened and closed their mouth a few times, finding their words. “I’m not mad that you didn’t listen to me— or, okay, I am, but that’s not the main reason. I’m upset that you didn’t tell me what you were planning in the first place. You just hung up and went to go hang out in a mineshaft where reanimated _skeletons_ have been spotted—”

What.

“— without even considering that that might be something people who care about you should know about.”

“To be fair, this is the first time I’m hearing about the weird necromancy stuff,” Lance defended, then winced. “Although, I probably would if I had, uh, told you I was heading to the mines.” He looked at Hunk for another second, then at the ceiling. “I wasn’t— it wasn’t the whole mines thing that I was—” Lance huffed out a frustrated breath. Words were hard. “I was just… I was in a weird headspace, and I didn’t want to shove all my garbage emotions onto you. It wasn’t about me not wanting you to know about the mines as much as it was just… me not wanting you to have to deal with my trash.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Lance was being wrapped in a hug. “Lance,” Hunk said, quiet and sincere, “sometimes you need to get the garbage emotions out in the open, so your good friend can say ‘wow, look at all this garbage; let’s examine it, see where it came from, and _not_ immediately go sledding down the mountain on milk crates because no matter how cool it may sound, it ends in broken necks, always’. Like, okay. We’ve both been snippy before. You snap, I snap, and it’s bad! It’s not fun! But it’s not the end of the world, and we’ve worked through it before, and hey, that’s sledding down trash mountain.” Hunk inclined their head. “And we can cut that off at the pass, y’know? You can tell me, hey, the garbage is about ankle deep, and you’re worried about some broken bottles slicing my legs up. And then we can work through it and avoid the sharp bits together.”

Hunk smiled, then drew back from the hug. “It’s the not telling me in the first place that gets you hurt, and that’s what gets everyone feeling like garbage.”

Lance nodded. “Yeah, I, uh… I get what you mean.” That said, it was time to deflect. “Garbage doesn’t sound like a word anymore,” he said.

“ _Right_? I know I started the metaphor, so I should stick to it, but still.” Hunk shook their head. “You’ve got that look where you really want to change the topic, and the horse is definitely dead by this point, but…” Hunk looked at Lance, eyes searching. “I really, really need you to know that it’s okay to ask for help.”

Lance nodded. “I’ll remember that. Thanks, Hunk.”

“Promise I won’t almost have a heart attack because Keith dragged your unconscious body onto my doorstep again?”

Trying very hard to ignore the ‘Keith’ and ‘dragged’ parts of that sentence, Lance crossed his heart with his hand. “I promise,” he said. “And I’ll do you one better: I’ll make sure that I have proper gear on me when I go out, and I’ll text you whenever I’m about to do something even a little bit dangerous. Soon you’ll be begging me to stop sending updates. Except you love me too much for that, so you’ll just have to live with them forever.”

Hunk, snorted, despite themself. “Something about that sounds familiar.”

“Hey!” Lance squawked, earning him a long, slow look that, yeah, he probably deserved.

After a moment more, Hunk hugged him again.“I’m going to hold you to that promise. You really scared me today, Lance.” They withdrew, then, without warning, tossed something onto the bed. “Now eat your crackers and drink some water.”

Lance blinked, confused, then realized said water was on the nightstand. “Thanks, buddy.”

“Of course. Don’t eat or drink too fast; you’ll puke.”

“They’re crackers, Hunk. My stomach’s dealt with worse.” Lance’s headache-induced nausea might have been begging to differ, but he could handle saltines and water, of all things.

“Uh-huh, sure,” Hunk agreed, too readily. “In that case, vomit bucket’s to your left. Try to keep the splash zone to a minimum.”

Let it never be said that Hunk didn’t know what they were talking about. Nausea was one hell of a thing. At the very least, Hunk’s very large, fluffy cat consistently tried to make him feel better by jumping on the bed and curling up against him, as concerned as her owner. Which, well. Despite everything, it was nice to feel cared for.

 

* * *

 

Once released from Hunk’s eagle-eyed supervision, Lance was forced to confront the fact that he felt like microwaved sewage. It felt like a coil of regret had met a rope of shame somewhere in his gut and they’d decided to braid themselves into one, heavy clump.

One thing was for sure: Hunk deserved the fanciest hot chocolate Lance could find, and an advance on their birthday present. Which meant that Lance needed to jump right back into the gifting fray, considering it had taken Lance forever to find a beaker-shaped mug sturdy enough to be trusted with hot liquid, but hey, it was the least he could do.

As for other things that Hunk deserved, well…

Lance sighed, then texted them a quick update. He had promised them that he’d tell them whenever he was planning to go back into the mines, after all. However, they probably hadn’t expected it to be this soon.

It was like falling off a horse, though. If Lance didn’t at least walk around the entrance for a bit, right away, he’d never go back. He had to prove that setting foot in the place wouldn’t immediately double him over. It might have still been a deathtrap, yeah, but it was a deathtrap that he refused to let scare him.

Lance took a deep breath, then released it immediately. Building up a climactic atmosphere wasn’t allowed; that was in direct opposition to the whole point. No deep breaths, no steeling himself, nothing! No dramatics permitted whatsoever. All Lance had to do was stroll into the mines.

Yessiree, he could walk in whenever he wanted to.

Easy-peasy.

Any moment.

Lance was just waiting for the right one, was the thing, and he wasn’t stalling at all, except he totally was, wasn’t he. He covered his face with his hands and groaned. Why was he so bad at this?

Almost as if in response to his groan, a sound came from the entrance to the mines, which ramped up the creep factor by eleven. Lance froze.

The sound echoed again, plaintive, loud, and very, very feline, and Lance relaxed. It was probably just a cat, then. Which was actually… pretty worrying? What if it had gotten trapped in there? What if a slime monster was trying to eat it?

Lance tensed again as a wave of concern swept over him. He darted through the entrance, squinting into the sudden gloom, only to stop mid-stride at the sight of two gleaming eyes in the darkness. The mewl sounded again, but the blurry outline of the cat shrank back as Lance approached, eyes watchful.

Right. Lance needed to communicate that he wasn’t a threat. He bit the inside of his cheek. How was that supposed to work again? Eye contact was a no, if he remembered correctly, and he’d always been a tall dude, so taking the whole looming thing out of the equation was probably a good idea.

Nodding to himself, Lance sat on the ground, then looked in the exact opposite direction of the cat. Then, he waited.

Somewhere out there, there had to be a cat whisperer trophy with Lance’s name on it, considering how quickly the cat scampered over to him, mewling in what sure sounded like offense at being ignored. As he stretched out a closed fist for the cat to sniff, Lance preened. Oh yeah, he was the best. There was a stray cat climbing in his lap, and the world was a beautiful place.

The cat bumped her head into Lance’s chest, rubbing against him, and he laughed. “Oh, you’re super friendly, aren’t you?” She purred, as if in response. “Oh _no._ That’s illegal. I didn’t authorize this.”

Unaware of her crimes, or uncaring, the cat began to knead Lance’s leg. It was official: Lance lived there now. He’d have to text his goodbyes to Hunk and email his family because he was going to live and die in that cave, trapped by the cat in his lap.

Whether by coincidence or serendipity, Lance’s phone chose that moment to vibrate. The cat, displeased, flexed her claws into Lance’s jeans as he fumbled to extricate his phone, but eventually settled down once more.

 **_(13:46)_ ** _Are you rlly sure you should be down there this soon lance_

 **_(13:46)_ ** _Why_

 **_(13:46)_ ** _Why are you so desperate to sustain the town’s dying mortuary business single handedly_

 **(13:47)** hunk,

 **(13:47)** why must u pun at me in my own home?????

 **_(13:48)_ ** _You don’t live in the mines and also the pun was not intentional but also not unwelcome and I for one think you’re unappreciative of quality humor_

 **(13:49)** no i live here now

 **(13:49)** theres a cat sitting in my lap so i can never leave

**(13:49) [image delivered]**

**(13:50)** i love her

 **(13:50)** wait do u think someone lost her????

 **(13:50)** should i be making lost cat posters?? does this town even have a print shop

 **_(13:51)_ ** _!!!!! WHAT A BEAUTIFUL CAT I LOVE HER_

 **_(13:51)_ ** _Yes to the print shop but no to the lost thing_

 **_(13:52)_ ** _Trust me I know the exact location of every pet in this town to maximize errand enjoyment and no one owns a grey shorthair_

 **_(13:52)_ ** _Or not yet anyway. Yellow’s pretty great around other animals though so I can def see about placing your new friend_

 **(13:52)** EXCUSE YOU

 **(13:53)** BLUE AND I ARE VERY HAPPY TOGETHER

 **(13:53)** VERY HAPPY

 **_(13:53)_ ** _Lmao so I guess you’re adopting her then_

 **_(13:53)_ ** _Oh no. Lance oh no did you name her blue bc of yellow_

 **_(13:54)_ ** _Lance I’m gonna cry_

 **(13:54)** love ya buddy

Lance pocketed the phone again, then pet Blue, who yawned. “Whaddaya say, Blue? Want to ditch this creepy mine and come live somewhere with an actual roof?”

Blue blinked, purring louder than a generator, which sounded like a yes to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blue's introduction is based completely off of how I met my current cat, Tiny Cat, with the exception of Tiny breaking into my house and me waking up with her purring on my chest


	7. You Have to Break a Few Eggs to Get Salmonella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When You've Dug Yourself A Grave, You Can Either Stop Digging or Try Introducing Explosives To Speed Things Along

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the unexpected hiatus! Basically, if you ever think "I can handle 23 credits in a semester" that's at least twenty years of bad coping mechanisms talking, and also, don't. 
> 
> ESPECIALLY don't think "I can handle a two and a half hour long creative writing class every week," Because You Will Want To Die. 
> 
> Another difficulty was actually forcing myself to write arguments because I... Hate conflict. Luckily, Stella, who you might know from our [ cowritten klance fake marriage fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7892101/chapters/18026593), helped a lot. It's like a guest star on a show. Guest cowriter.
> 
> Anyway! Enjoy!

Waking up early was a lot easier when a cat was involved. Or at least, it was when said cat chose to whine as loudly as possible at the barest hint of light on the horizon. However, the days she decided she’d rather rest on top of Lance’s chest, butt in his face, for the rest of eternity... Well, that was a different story altogether. Luckily, that had only ever been a problem when it was raining.

Although, it sure did seem to rain a lot. Which! Wasn’t a problem, since Pidge designed the crops with the local weather in mind; their roots wouldn’t rot too easily. If anything, the rain gave Lance a few days off.

Which was the real problem, honestly.

He was back to where he started: bored out of his skull. There was only so much entertainment that fishing could offer, and it was about used up by the third or fourth hour, even with Blue’s help. Fish deliveries for the junimos didn’t do much to break up the monotony either; the little guys had very specific requests, and half of the fish they wanted wouldn’t be around until Fall.

Sure, he could have, hypothetically, gone back into the mines if he was that bored, but Keith might have been there, and he might have tried to talk about the whole collapsing thing— which honestly, was last week’s news— and it would just turn into this whole… thing. He’d just make it weird.

No way Lance was letting himself get pulled into an interaction where he was expected to be grateful since, as far as Keith was concerned, Lance was just some random guy that Keith had to carry out of a mine. Better to just avoid him until he did what he did best and forgot that Lance even existed.

So, no matter how sick Lance was of fishing, he fished. Then, when he got bored with that, he’d play with Blue until she got bored with him. Then he’d turn on the TV, remember it got a total of three channels, watch a full hour of a cooking show before remembering the cottage didn’t have an actual kitchen, and sullenly choke down yet another cup of instant ramen. Then he’d fish again.

It wasn’t like it was all that bad. The fish meant that he could at least add some protein into his diet, and there was something hypnotic about watching the rain as it struck the rivers criss-crossing the farm. Besides, his ADHD didn’t kick his butt too badly so long as he listened to music the whole time. It just felt like his only option, which made it feel… unfulfilling? Inevitable? Bad.

In any case, thinking about it was giving him a headache. He might as well spend the whole day inside, sipping cocoa. Watch another rerun of Queen of Sauce. Grow increasingly more frustrated with his lack of stove. Fun times.

Lightning cracked outside the cottage. Lance jumped in response, then leaned forward in his chair, counting the seconds before the thunder clap.

Eight seconds. So the lightning was… A little over a mile and a half away. He sighed, then went back to rolling a geode between his palms.

Blue crouched, eyes trained on the motion. Her butt began to wiggle in preparation for attack, and nope, no, those were Lance’s hands; he needed those!

“This is literally a rock! You can’t— It’s not alive! You can’t kill it!” Lance held the rock aloft, standing before she could pounce.

Chirping hopefully up at him, Blue nudged against his leg.

“Not food,” Lance said, sternly, before walking over to the chest in the corner and placing the geode among its brethren. A bunch of boring treasure eggs that would live out their non-lives unfulfilled. Who knew what lay within them? Not Lance.

Once again, Keith had to go and ruin everything.

A traitorous voice in the back of Lance’s head, which sounded a lot like Lance would if he was a spineless quitter, reminded him that Keith had probably saved his life the other day. The rest of Lance’s brain fired back that Lance had never asked him to do that.

Then Lance’s common sense, sounding an awful lot like Hunk, observed: wow, that sure wasn’t a healthy response, was it, buddy?

Irritated now, Lance turned his back on the geodes, then grabbed his jacket. Staying cooped up wasn’t doing him any good. He might as well check his mail, at the very least. Maybe check on Hunk. Or Pidge. Plaxum? Someone.

Lance bent over to lace up his boots. However, before he could straighten back up, he felt the impact of an awful, ridiculous creature jumping onto his back.

“Blue,” he whined, still bent over. “My back’s gonna get stuck like this. Is that what you want?”

The pinprick of claws piercing the thick cloth of his jacket was his only answer.

“You’re killing me. You are killing your father.”

Eventually, Blue took the hint— or, more likely, decided that Lance’s insistence on breathing made her perch too shaky to be comfortable— and hopped off.

Lance straightened, wincing as he cracked his back. “You,” he announced, pointing at Blue, “are lucky you’re adorable.”

Blue blinked at him from where she’d settled on the bed, purring as loudly as possible.

Shaking his head, Lance rolled his eyes. “Watch the house while I’m out. Don’t talk to strangers unless they’re wearing really cool capes,” he instructed.

Blue was clearly very impressed by Lance’s common sense, as well as his faith in her abilities, and expressed this awe by yawning dramatically before beginning to groom herself.

The world outside was much the same as it’d been for the past couple days: wet. Lance watched the rain from the porch for a moment, staring on as it dripped off the roof and pooled on the stairs.The uneven slant to the porch tilted the runoff to one end, where it built up until it reached maximum capacity and sloughed off in one massive flood. The sound of raindrops spattering as they hit the ground, the roof, and the water was only ever disrupted by the occasional crash of thunder or the deep croak of a bullfrog, and wow, he was about five seconds away from spacing out so completely that he’d need to be classified as a satellite, huh?

Shaking his head, Lance kicked himself into gear. Checking his mail wasn’t exactly a complex process, but it did require standing in front of the actual mailbox.

All things considered, the mailbox was a well of possibilities: schrödinger’s box with a neat little flag. A card that smelled like seaweed on what barely qualified as paper was just as likely as a roll of blueprints with no accompanying explanation. Or, even more likely, nothing at all. Whatever the case, it was hard to expect anything in particular.

If there was anything Lance would rank as least likely, it would be an actual envelope.

Immediately on guard, he looked for the return address. If it was from Galra Corp, he didn’t care what it was; it would be doomed to the Table of Eternal Limbo, waiting for some future Lance to work up either enough energy or self-hatred to open it.

Fortunately for Future Lance, the letter’s origin was nowhere close to something that straightforward. It looked as if someone had decided to change the return address halfway through sending it off, ran out of correction tape, switched to correction fluid, and then accidentally scratched part of it off by putting too much pressure into their pen. The result was probably readable if Lance put a little more effort in, but honestly, it was easier to just check the actual letter.

The “Mayor Allura” tacked onto the end was about the best possible reassurance Lance could have gotten, all things considered.

Newly confident that the letter wouldn’t try to kill him, Lance began to read.

“Dear Lance,” the letter greeted, which was already a step-up from literally anything else that had found its way into his mailbox. Salutations. An unthinkable luxury. “Tomorrow we’re holding the Egg Festival in the town square.”

The Egg Festival, huh. It rang a nostalgic bell, but the memories were vague enough that the bell might as well have been ringing on the other side of a highway during rush hour. He’d only ever joined in the festivities once, when he was around seven. The next time he’d had the chance, he’d been a teenager, and therefore too cool to crawl through bushes looking for eggs. Gramps, meanwhile, had no problem publicly embarrassing Lance by competing. And losing. Badly.

Now that Lance thought about it, he probably lost on purpose. Which, fair. He was competing against kids, after all. Making them feel important, like they’d won something... Yeah. Sounded like Gramps.

Shaking off the past, Lance continued reading. “You should arrive between nine am and two pm if you’d like to attend,” the letter said. “You wouldn’t want to miss the annual egg hunt, I’m sure. Sincerely, Mayor Allura.”

Lance tapped the letter against his hand, thinking. The Egg Festival _would_ be a good opportunity to sit back and chat with Hunk for a bit. Get to know Shay a bit better. Maybe meet some other villagers.

However. Keith.

Lance took a moment to stew in his completely justified, righteous dismay, before moving to address the issue logically. All thing considered, honestly, how likely was it that Keith would want to join in anyway? Keith was probably allergic to fun, much less social interaction. He’d probably be hiding in his blacksmith cave the whole time.

Besides, even if he _did_ show up, Lance was an adult! And therefore! Fully capable of ignoring him! Especially if he tried to lord the collapsing thing over Lance’s head, proving himself to be the worst.

Decided, Lance slipped the letter into his jacket pocket. He was going to talk to his friends, be a mature adult, and, as a bonus, he could rub it all in Keith’s face. If the jerk even showed up.

 

* * *

 

Life was an unending torrent of misery, and Keith was a tool who had decided to emerge from his Keith-crevice and wreak havoc on the unsuspecting masses. Which just figured. Apparently, staying inside left him unable to ruin everyone else’s day, which just wouldn’t do.

And! Just to rub salt into the wound! He was _talking_ to people! Keith never talked to people at the Garrison, but no, here he was all, oh boy, time to talk with Shiro, chat up that person who looks kind of like a stretched out penguin with lots of arms, and wait was that Hunk.

_Hunk!_

Lance looked on in betrayal as Hunk continued to speak to Keith, who was— he was laughing. At something Hunk was saying. Keith! Was laughing! At a joke Hunk made!

Had Lance woken up in an alternate dimension that morning? Was right left now? Was water dry? Was Blue— no, Blue had still been perfect that morning, so that was out.

But what other explanation could there be for someone like Hunk to make friends with Keith? Or Shiro, for that matter. Maybe Shiro was one of those people who liked to see the best in everyone? But _Hunk_! Hunk had discerning tastes.

“Attention, everyone!”

Maybe Keith was secretly a hypnotist? That would explain a lot, actually.

“The—” A shriek of electric feedback filled the air, a strategically sound location from which it could easily drive pikes directly through Lance’s eardrums and into his brain.

After the sound faded, it was replaced by the amplified voice of Mayor Allura. “My deepest apologies to all of you. Technical issues are, as of late, becoming a far more pressing, ah, issue than any of us would like.” She paused for a moment. “That aside, the all-age egg hunt will take place in the center of the town square in twenty dobashes! Prospective contestants are encouraged to participate. Bring your...” She seemed to search the crowd for a moment before continuing. “Game faces,” she finished, sounding out the phrase.

Twenty dobashes, huh? That was roughly… seventeen minutes. Give or take.

Lance made a face. There wasn’t really a lot to do that only took seventeen minutes. He could just chill in the town square for a while, but that kind of gave off the whole Freshman’s First Day of Class vibe, which no thanks.

Luckily, his choice was made for him when he spotted a hand waving in the distance.

The first thing Lance noticed, as he drew closer, was the stand. Well, Pidge’s hand, then the stand, then the rest of Pidge, which was probably out of order. But, in Lance’s defense, the stall was bright pink and green, which were _very_ eye-catching colors, and pigeons weren’t exactly known for their colorful plumage.

Ha. He was hilarious.

Pidge was squinting at him before he even reached the stand. “I don’t trust that expression.”

“What!” Lance drew himself up to his full height. “That was a smile! A _happy_ face.”

“Normally, yes, but it’s this…” Pidge waved her hand. “Specific smile. Matt has the same one. It’s the ‘I made a really bad inside joke with myself,’ smile.”

“No, it’s not? This is a normal smile! An excellent smile. It accentuates my handsome face.” Lance framed his chin with his thumb and forefinger, then paused. “Who’s Matt?”

“Are you— Lance. Are you being serious?” Pidge stared him down, then wheezed in disbelief. “My brother? Matt?”

“Ah!” Lance rubbed the back of his neck. “We haven’t really had the chance to talk? He just kind of appears behind you for a few seconds, tells you to take a break, then disappears.”

Pidge shook her head, sighing. Because Lance was right. So There. “Okay. Fair point.” Ha! “Still, I thought that I would have mentioned him by now.”

“You have,” Lance said. “Just not, y’know, by name.”

“Mmm.” Pidge rapped her knuckles on the counter in thought. “So, you gonna buy anything?”

Lance blinked at her. “You— You were the one who waved me over!”

“Yes,” Pidge drawled, “because you happen to be the proprietor of a farm. And I happen to be a proprietor of seeds. Therefore…” She gestured at the stall around her.

Right. Of course. This was business, and it made sense, and Lance was not going to sulk. That would be silly. Sure, it would have been nice if someone had seen Lance and just wanted to enjoy his company, but whatever. Business was business.

“I mean, it’s good to see you and all, but this is literally the only day of the year we sell strawberry seeds.”

Lance perked up. Slightly. He was keeping his arms crossed, though. “Alright then. Show me the goods.”

Pidge raised a single eyebrow— which, impressive— then smirked. “You got the cash?” She asked, sotto voice, leaning into the stand.

Lance stroked his chin theatrically. “I might. Depends on the quality.”

“This wasn’t part of the deal,” Pidge said, putting on an accent that, if pressed to place, Lance could confidently say was bad, fake, and not how anyone, anywhere talked, unless that person happened to be imitating a film about British teenagers with nasal infections.  

“Deals change,” Lance said, leaning on his elbow against the stand.

Pidge stared him down for a moment, then snorted, breaking character. “Alright, chucklehead, how many seed packets do you want?”

Lance hummed. “How long do they take to start producing?”

“ _Well_ ,” Pidge said, wincing. “You might want to hold off until next Spring, actually. They take a bit longer than the other plants. They _do_ keep producing, but I’d suggest planting them first day of Spring to maximize crop yield.”

Lance made a sound that was definitely dignified and bore no resemblance whatsoever to a whine.

“It’s an investment!” Pidge defended.

“Ugh, fine,” Lance said, conceding. “Just take advantage of your local farmer. I’ll take sixteen packets.”

“Excellent,” Pidge said, grinning. The villain.

Once she’d rung him up, Lance still had a few minutes to shove his purchases in his bag before heading off to the Egg Hunt, which meant he had just enough time to overthink himself to death. After all, carrying on Gramp’s memory and going all in was a given, but as for his strategy, well.

He couldn’t go all out; that’d just crush the poor kids. But if he threw the competition too obviously, the kids would start doubting themselves and their victory, and that was unacceptable.

Lance nodded to himself. His best bet would be to fight hard, but not hard enough to actually win. He’d observe his opponents mid-battle and adapt his strategy accordingly.

Decided, Lance headed off towards the town square.

“Have fun!” Pidge called after him.

 

* * *

  

Lance did not have fun.

All things considered, a town with two whole children in it wouldn’t be able to sustain any tradition solely aimed at children for very long. But! Hindsight was twenty-twenty, and the universe conspiring to ensure that Lance always had egg on his face— in every sense of the phrase— didn’t help much.

The good news was that the kids had their own egg hunt, so Lance didn’t have to worry about throwing the fight after all. The bad news was that his life was a nightmare, the ‘all-ages’ egg hunt had obviously been designed for government-trained egg assassins of the highest order, and _Keith was a demon who wanted Lance to die._

“There, there,” Pidge said, patting Lance on the back, and even if it did sound condescending, Lance would take what he could get. “You did pretty well for your first year.”

“Second place,” Lance grumbled. Or tried to. Having his mouth pressed against a table made it hard to make sounds that were actually audible.

“Yeah? Like I said, pretty good. Besides, Keith’s practically a pro at this by now.”

Lance made a noise that was definitely not a groan. Because that would be immature. “Ugh. Of course he is.” He lifted himself up so he could gesture more effectively. “He’s always trying to show me up. He thinks he’s better than everyone!”

Pidge squinted at him. “Mmm. Are you talking about Keith who works at the forge? Because… Yeah, no.”

“Uh, yeah, yes! He’s constantly rubbing how great he is at everything in my face!”

“That’s not like Keith at all,” Pidge said, mercilessly countering him with a swift and unexpected betrayal. Her eyebrows furrowed.  “Are you sure we’re talking about the same person?”

“Yes! We were just talking about him winning the egg hunt!” Lance threw his arms up in the air, then crossed them. Where was the ‘oh, _Keith!_ Yeah, that guy’s a total jerk’? The sympathy? The objectively correct response! “How would you know what Keith’s like anyway?”

“Well, for one,” Pidge said, rolling her eyes, “we’ve been friends for years.”

Lance hissed in a breath. He’d been betrayed on all sides. First Hunk, then Pidge? Why was everyone he knew secretly one of Keith’s biggest fans?

“Okay, look,” the traitorous pigeon started. “I don’t really know where you’re coming from with this, but we’ve obviously had two very different sets of interactions with Keith. So, let’s take a step back and examine this logically. Or as logically as one can examine their own emotions.”

Oh no.

“Why do you dislike Keith so much?”

“Like I said, he’s always—”

“Nope.” Pidge cut him off. “Solid examples. Actual interactions we can examine.”

 _Oh no._ “Well,” Lance hedged, trying to think of anything where he hadn’t ended up embarrassed, but Pidge was looking expectantly at him, and everything he could think of could only be dragged out at like friendship level seven, and fuck, he’d cling to any rope that had a chance at derailing this conversation.

“Pidge!” Keith’s voice rang out behind them.

Not that one.

“Hey, Keith,” Pidge said, her voice way too natural for someone who was just talking behind the back of— she wasn’t going to pull the ‘we were just talking about you’ thing, was she? She couldn’t be that diabolical.

No. She was a younger sibling. Anything was possible.

“Lance?”

Lance’s head jerked up as he realized, ah, Pidge had been trying to get his attention. “Yeah?”

“Keith was asking you if you were alright?” Pidge said, taking on a probing tone, and nope, there was no way that could be good.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Lance crossed his arms. If Keith was bringing anything up when Lance hadn’t been present enough to defend himself, it was to ruin him. Just leave it to Keith to manipulate the conversation to make Lance space out and look bad. Lance might as well have set up LED lights pointing to Keith’s smug face because there was Pidge’s proof.

Keith’s eyebrows scrunched together, forcing emotion into his expression. “You collapsed the other day? In the mines. Surrounded by acid slimes.”

Goddammit, Lance _knew_ Keith would try to make it weird.

“You— What?” Pidge braced herself against the stall, eyes wide. “Lance?”

“It’s— Look, it’s not that big of a deal. It’s fine.” This was a nightmare. It was bad enough that Keith saw him at peak disaster! Or rock-bottom disaster, really. He didn’t need a barely-acquaintance knowing his full capacity for catastrophe, thanks. “I don’t really remember much about it, anyway. Guess there must be, like, gases in the mines? Not enough air.”

Pidge made a face. “If that was the case, no one would be allowed in the mines at all. Y’know, because they’d die.” Her stare cut into Lance with obvious judgement. “That’s not the case.”

“No, it isn’t.” Keith seconded, then turned to Lance. “You collapsed from exhaustion.”

“Mmm, don’t think so, actually!” Lance said, looking for literally any escape route from this conversation.

“I had to carry you out of— I cradled you in my arms!” Wow, there were so many better ways to phrase that. “You didn’t wake up for hours after you got out of there! Hunk thought you were _dead_ for a second!”

“Don’t bring Hunk into this,” Lance snapped.

“Hey,” Pidge said, waving her hand. “Other person being brought into this here. Hi. That’s me. Can we backtrack to the part where you collapsed from exhaustion?”

“I’m dealing with it,” Lance said, except it came out too sharp, too abrasive.

“Waving it off as no big deal sure doesn’t seem like a healthy way of dealing with it,” Keith said, his voice pitched low with something that was pissing Lance off.

“Seconded.” Pidge agreed because of course. Of course Keith was right and Lance was wrong, like always.   

“Point taken!” Lance bit out. “Congrats! Now you can gloat for the rest of your life! So leave me alone and do it somewhere I don’t have to deal with it!”

Keith had the audacity to look confused. “Why would I— I’m not a total asshole?”

Lance laughed, a bitter sound. “Sure. Sure you’re not!” He clenched his fists. “Then do me a favor and stop talking, stop telling me what— Just stop! I don’t need some wash-out from the Garrison telling me how to live my life!” Fuck. Too far. That was too far.

“The fu— Lance, what the fuck?” Pidge asked, the outrage in her voice like a punch to the gut. “That was way out of line!

“I…” Lance scrambled for anything to explain himself, but there was nothing he could say. Not like this. Not in front of Keith. Not when she was right.

It had been too far. Lance had pushed it too far, he knew he did, and what kind of person would go for a low blow like that? Nothing justified slamming a nail into an old wound like that, but Lance had just! Done it anyway! Despite knowing exactly what kind of pain that would bring to the table, and Keith was— Keith was fine.

Well. He looked like he was angry, but it was the normal amount of angry, not devastated hurt. Which was good! But also, what the he— Nope, only relief, Lance was only allowed to feel relief right now because feeling like it was a little bit messed up for Keith to not be messed up about something Lance _knew_ would mess him up would be… messed up.

“Why do you hate me so much?” Keith asked, and of course, of course he’d just ask it straight out. “What did I ever do to you?”

“Nothing!” Lance fired back, and the sound was too strained, too hitched. Like a signal flare that had reached the end of its life, the anger had sputtered into spent sparks and an empty tube, and what he’d meant to come out as biting had sounded more like a whine. And, just like a castaway stuck holding the flare long after help had disappeared over the horizon, all he had left was the knowledge that he’d blown it.

He scrubbed at his face, trying to mask any sign that he’d moved up Maslow's Hierarchy of full-blown fuck-ups. “Nothing,” he repeated. “Just… Forget about it. You’re great at that.”  

Keith looked like he was about to say something else, which was Lance’s cue to get out of dodge. Like hell was Lance going to let him take anything else from him, up to and including the last word.

Coming to the festival had been a mistake. He hadn’t been able to talk to Hunk or Shay, and he’d completely decimated any chance he might have at becoming friends with Pidge. Keith, like always, had just shoved all of Lance’s shortcomings in his face, and Lance had… Lance had just proved him right.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter should come out fairly quick because I'm a lot better about open and honest communication than I am conflict, and also, it's Winter Break.
> 
> WHO'S READY FOR CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT, OPEN ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF FLAWS, AND RENEWED DETERMINATION TO BE A BETTER PERSON!!! CAUSE I KNOW I'M HYPED


	8. Constructive Criticism is a Team Sport

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this started out as a christmas present for Sine last year, and look at it now. merry christmas again, Sine. It Keeps on Giving

Being friends with Hunk had its advantages. For one, they had used the same pattern to knock on doors for over a literal decade, and determining which circle of the Hunk/not Hunk venn diagram the person knocking fell in was vital to figuring out just how much energy opening it would require.

However, it would be a lot easier for Lance to isolate himself if his best friend wasn’t the literal embodiment of sunshine. Especially considering said sunshine was nosy. And apparently friends with Pidge _and_ Keith, which, wow, Lance was just _so_ good at picking his battles! So much for his plan to avoid his problems until they died of old age.

He rested his forehead on the doorframe. He couldn’t even bang his head on it in frustration because that would give away the fact that he was home, and then he’d have to talk to Hunk about everything, and they’d want to talk about how he’d messed up, and it’d turn into a whole _thing_.  

Hunk knocked again. “Uh, Lance? Are you home? I wanted to check if you were alright?” Their voice was strained. Way to go, Lance. Way to worry his best friend into panic mode.

“But if you’re not home, that’s cool too! Unless you’re in the mines again, which you wouldn’t be because you would’ve checked in with me, but if you’re not there, you could be anywhere, and that’s… that’s probably fine? You’re probably fine! Maybe you’re even on your way to visit me, or something, and I missed you, or…. you could have tripped while coming to visit me, actually, which means falling down a cliff, and I _told_ you to be careful there! That cliff is really stee—”

Lance opened the door, which, great, glad to know his impulses were running the show. Again. However, it was hard to get too upset at himself when Hunk brightened up almost as soon as the door was open.  

“Lance! Just who I was looking for!”

That... sure was a way to greet someone in their own home.

“This is my porch?” Lance sounded out the words, squinting at his friend. Mental sirens began to blare the closer he looked.

Hunk was rocking on their heels, and pulling at their shirt, and nope, this didn’t bode well at all.

Was it too late to pretend he wasn’t home?

“So it is!” Hunk said, their voice too loud. “Anyway, I need your help with something.” Oh no. “I was out taking samples of the sulfur deposits towards the south of your farm, and I lost my PH kit. I was _really_ hoping you could help me find it.” They glanced around, eyes passing over Lance, and, wow, they really hadn’t gotten any better at lying over the years, had they?

Lance stared for a long moment, evaluating his options. On one hand, Hunk was still fiddling, and this was obviously a trap designed to force Lance into talking about his feelings, which: ugh and also blech. On the other hand, the healthy choice would be to just let the conversation happen and take whatever disappointment and gentle reprimanding Hunk could dish out because, yeah, Lance did kind of deserve it.

Make that ‘definitely’. Lance definitely deserved it.

Lance took a steadying breath, opened his mouth to speak, and then sprinted past Hunk, vaulting off the porch in the process.

“Lance!” Hunk called after him, sounding two-parts distressed and one-part exasperated.

Which! Did make Lance feel really, really sorry about the whole ordeal, but not enough to face judgement. Especially since he’d just added the whole running off at top speed thing to the list of Misdeeds In Need of Restitution.

Fortunately, running across his farm required a ton of contentration, so he didn’t have to think too deeply about the consequences of his actions. Not when it was as hard as it was to balance across the bridges crossing the rivers, avoid running into boulders, remember to breathe for stamina, not speed, and— crow, he wasn’t wearing his binder, was he?

Lance took in a deep breath, then sighed in relief when he didn’t feel any restriction. Having to stop to vomit because his ribs were being crushed and his diaphragm wanted him dead would have been the worst possible reason to get caught. He took a moment to congratulate himself for looking out for his future self, then realized he’d stopped running.

He cursed, then started again.  

Lance wasn’t sure how long he’d been running by the time he escaped the bounds of his property, but it was long enough for his logic and reason to have collaborate on  an argument that could beat back his awful lizard brain.

Where, exactly, did he intend to run? This was a small town— no, too generous. It was a village. There was literally nowhere he could hide, unless he wanted to hide out in the woods forever.

And maybe he could! If, maybe, the woods happened to have plumbing, which they didn’t, and quiznak, Lance was going to actually have to face his problems, wasn’t he?

Lance slowed to a stop. If he wasn’t out of breath, he would have sighed in resignation. As scary as it seemed, he _could_ be an adult about this. So long as he steeled himself and put his best foot forward, he could face Hunk and deflect like nobody’s business.

Determined, he turned around and immediately realized two things: he didn’t know where he was, and he had no idea how to get home.

In retrospect, running off of his property and into the woods in an unfamiliar area— an area he’d only lived in for _two weeks_ — was not the best plan Lance had ever had. And getting wrapped up in his own head while he ran? Even less so.

However! If Lance knew anything, it was how to get himself out of sticky situations, even if he’d been the one to dunk them in adhesive in the first place.

His first priority was figuring out which direction he was facing. The sun was almost overhead, but, luckily, it was still a bit to his left, so… he was facing south. Which meant that he’d need to do a one-eighty to get back to his—

Wait, was that Coran’s tower?

The multicolored affront to good taste loomed over the trees, and, oh, jackpot. Lance knew exactly how to get home from there! Who needed basic survival training when there was a wizard with bad taste in architecture around?

After another moment’s rest, Lance set off at a light jog. He might have renewed his resolve, but determination didn’t inflate lungs. It took a few minutes, but soon the tower was looming almost directly overhead.

The closer he got to it, the surer Lance was that he could easily find his way home, and the surer he became that Coran was, one, outside, and two, definitely flagging him down. The frantic waving was a bit of a giveaway.

Lance scanned the area, concerned. There wasn’t any smoke around, right? Though, Coran used, like, magic, so if there was a fire or something, he could probably take care of it. Still, he seemed to live alone, and if he was hurt, there wouldn’t be anyone to help. Better to pick up the pace and see what was wrong, just in case.

“Are you—” Lance took a moment to bend over and wheeze. “Are you alright?”

“Ah! Yes!” Coran’s voice was as strong as usual, if a bit taken-aback. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Uh? The whole…” Lance waved his hands to conserve the breath that words took.

“Oh! I just saw you out and about and thought, ah, there’s Lance! Out and about! I should call him over for a chat.” He made a sound, low and thoughtful. “Although, I feel as if I’m the one who should be asking you if _you’re_ alright, things as they are.”

Bristling, Lance straightened. “Wh— And how _are_ things, exactly? Huh?”

Coran blinked at him, surprised. “Well, for one, you were running through the woods willy nilly. For two, you’ve been hunched over, breathing like you just fought a klænürl, for most of this conversation.”

Oh. Right. It was official: Lance was a jerk.

“I’m sorry, Coran.” Lance sighed. “I’m just a bit defensive right now. There’s a… there’s a lot going on.”

“Hmm.” Coran looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. “Well, if you’d like to share a bit of the load, this man’s still got a bit of roguish strength to him.”  

That… didn’t sound like the right adjective there, but who was Lance to judge.

“Thanks, Coran, but…” Lance trailed off. But what? What was there to lose? Coran’s infallible impression of him, some guy who’d gotten competitive over _titles_ with someone wearing a cape at six in the morning? Some guy who ran through the woods for no apparent reason?

“Actually? Sure.” Lance took in a deep breath. “I’ll take you up on that.”

Coran clapped his hands together. “Excellent! I’ll put on the kettle.”

 

* * *

 

It turned out that Coran didn’t own any tea and had no clue what humans actually did with kettles, but he did have hot chocolate with actual, real milk, which was way better, anyway.

Lance would have expected more dramatics from a guy who wore a cape everywhere, but instead, Coran listened quietly as Lance let everything out.

Occasionally, he’d ask for a few more details, or ask Lance to backtrack a bit, but interruptions were rare.

“I just wonder what I’m even doing here sometimes,” Lance finished. “I thought that maybe once I got out of Galra Corp., everything would change, or something. But I still feel the same.” He fiddled with his mug. His throat felt raw, and he couldn’t tell if it was from talking so much, or from the earlier running.

“I still feel like everyone else is way ahead of me, and all I can do is depend on them. They have to constantly deal with me screwing up, and I just… I hate it.” Lance tightened his grip on his mug. “And Keith’s always there.”

“He just— He had every opportunity that I didn’t, and he’s here. Like he didn’t even need— he could have done anything, and he’d be just fine.” It wasn’t fair. Whenever Lance was down, Keith would show up— not even to kick him! Just to thrive on his periphery and show him what he was missing out on.

Coran made a thoughtful sound, which, okay, not as judgmental as Lance feared. “Well,” he started, and oh no, there was the feedback. “You could have stayed at Galra Corp. for the rest of your life.”

What the—

Coran held up a hand. “I’m not saying you should have! It would have driven you into the nearest sun, sure enough, but you could have! But you chose to come here for your own reasons, and if you never told me why, I would have just gone on assuming this was one of many options for you, rather than the one thing standing between you and a self-destructive spiral. Consider, then: is Keith not capable of having his own reasons for his choices as well?”

Ugh. Lance wasn’t expecting actual rational advice out of this interaction.

“You’re probably right,” he admitted. Begrudgingly. “But the ship’s kind of sailed on that already. You heard what I pulled yesterday. There’s no coming back from that.”

“Lance!” Coran’s voice took on a sharp edge so quickly that it felt like finding a knife under a pillow. “Don’t give me that! What did you just tell me?”

“How I screwed up my entire life in extensive detail?”

“No!” Coran released something between a sigh and a scoff, an explosive sound for such a wiry man. “You told me that you found an opportunity to improve your circumstances, and you took it! It wasn’t an easy option, but you _fought_ for it! And now you’re just going to give up? I think not!”

Which would be a great sentiment in literally any other scenario.

“Except now I’m hurting people!” Lance bit out. “And they don’t deserve it! Hunk deserves better than a friend like me! Pidge deserves better!” He sighed, the sudden anger washing out of him in a tide. “Everyone deserves better than me.”

“Well, then, there’s a simple solution to that.” Coran clasped his hands together. “Much easier than causing your friends to suffer by seeing someone they care about make himself miserable for their sake, anyway.”  

“Oh yeah?” Ugh. That sounded more like a pout than a challenge. “What’s your solution, then?”

“Be better,” Coran said. He shrugged. “Nothing else for it. Try to do better. Respect that your friends see something good in you and try to bring that out. Polish it for them. Show that you can be the fantastic person they think you are. Sure, it won’t happen all at once, but a little bit of effort goes a long way. Small things become big things, in time.”

Coran brought a rock out of his pocket as he spoke, and twirled it between his palms. When he let go, it spun into the air and stayed there, hovering.

“We’re all changing, constantly! Becoming better versions of ourselves, hopefully. If we put the effort in.” He poked the rock, and it looked like something lit within it. Where it had looked dingy before, facets of it now caught and reflected light so that it was impossible to look away.

“This planet is constantly growing and changing,” he said, “with new life such as you being introduced every day.” He placed a few pebbles around the glowing rock, and slowly, they began to move around it. “But if you were to examine it from further away, knowing nothing but its orbit, you’d say it was just moving in circles, same as it ever has. You wouldn’t know about its relative growth from day to day; from your point of view, nothing changes, but in reality, everything has.”

“I, for instance, have been carefully manicuring my moustache for years and it has become all the better for my continued efforts,” Coran finished, stroking his moustache.

Lance blinked at him for a moment. “Your mousta— What about the— You were setting up the rocks! I was expecting that to lead into the rocks!”

“It helped me illustrate the orbit analogy!” Coran shook his head. “Besides, there’s nothing like arranging crystals to help you arrange your words! Fiddly things for fiddly concepts!”

“That’s… Okay, that’s fair,” Lance said. And, well, it did give him something to think about. “Thanks, Coran. I’ll—”

Lance was interrupted by the bang of the door swinging in.

“Coran! Can you find La— oh, thank god, he’s here.” One second Hunk was looming in the doorway, the embodiment of righteous anxiety and concern, and the next, they were sweeping Lance into a hug.

“This is a punitary hug,” Hunk said, squeezing him tightly. “You’re not allowed to enjoy this.” They stepped back, releasing him. “I was so— do you know how worried I was about you?”

“You were trying to get me to talk about gross emotions!” Lance whined.

The sound of a throat being cleared made Lance turn around. Coran was pointedly stroking his moustache, and okay, fine, yeah. Argument made.

“But you have a point, and I’m sorry, and I really should discuss things with you… in a place that isn’t Coran’s living room,” Lance said.

“Oh thank god.” Hunk stiffened then waved their hands at Coran. “Not that your place isn’t great, it was just that I wasn’t expecting Lance to—” They looked at Lance with a pained expression, then pointed with their hands. “You can be… difficult.”

“I know I proved that literally this morning, but also, ouch, buddy.” Lance shook his head. “Thanks for the hot chocolate, Coran. And… everything.”

“Not a worry! I enjoy the company.” Coran shooed them both. “Now, off. Groom some moustaches.”

“I don’t know what that means,” Hunk stage whispered to Lance as they walked towards the door.

“Don’t worry about it,” Lance responded.

 

* * *

 

Owning up to his crimes in front of his cat was part of becoming a better person, probably. Or, it better have been, because letting loose the tide of everything Lance had done wrong for the second time that day was already hard enough; doing it while both Hunk and Blue were giving him sad, knowing eyes? Awful. Horrible. The literal worst.

“So, yeah,” Lance finished. “I talked with Coran about it, and I’m gonna try to…” A generalized ‘be better’ wasn’t really concrete enough, was it? “I’m gonna try to put a leash on the whole ‘lashing out’ thing. And, also, y’know… work on the asking for help thing. That we already talked about. That I kind of already failed at.” He was just batting one hundred, huh?

Hunk looked at Lance for the longest, most stressful moment of his life, then smiled.

“I’m proud of you, buddy.”

Lance spluttered past the warmth spreading through him. “Don’t be?! It’s just, like, talk so far! I haven’t done anything yet!” Hunk should have saved that pride for when Lance had actually earned it.

“Nah,” Hunk said, shaking their head. “I know you, and I know when you mean something. You’ll follow through. Which! Is a huge relief.” They blew out their cheeks. “I had, like, no idea how this was gonna go.”

Hunk reached out and patted him on the shoulder, eyes soft. “I was _there_ when things spiralled at the Garrison, and that was without direct contact with Keith.” Hunk winced. “He _really_ thinks you hate him, by the way. Like loathe.”   

Alarm shot through Lance with the sudden heat of brushing against a hot stove. “Did you tell him—”

Hunk shook their head, and that shouldn’t have been such a relief, really. Not when Lance was supposed to be trying to be better anyway.

Still.

Aside from the horrors of stripping his insecurities bare and letting them choreograph a jaunty song and dance, it would just feel bad and weird for someone else— even if that someone was Hunk— to explain away Lance’s actions on his behalf. It felt like an easy way out.

“It wasn’t really my story to tell,” Hunk said, and, wow, Lance’s best friend really was some kind of mindreader.

“When did you go off and grow up without me?” Lance joked. “Old Hunk wouldn’t have even realized that there was a boundary in the first place.”

“Not sure, actually.” Hunk shrugged. “I guess if you try to be better for long enough, you don’t even know when you’ve gotten there. But I don’t really think you should ever stop trying?” They smiled, soft and bright as a sunrise. “So maybe that’s a good thing.”

Lance squinted at them.

“What?”

“I’m trying to figure out how you talked to Coran without me noticing,” Lance said.

Hunk snorted. “One: sometimes people can respond to situations with the same advice because it’s good advice. Two: believe it or not, you don’t have the monopoly on working through issues with Coran. Our village is so small, Lance. We don’t have a practicing psychologist in residence and, honestly? It’s awful.”

“That’s fair,” Lance said. Then, he sighed. If they’d cycled back around to the advice du jour, it was time to actually act on it. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“First things first: I need to apologize to Keith,” Lance said, standing up. Then, he paused. “Okay, actually, real first things first.” He crossed over to Hunk, hugging them. “This is a punitive hug, you’re not allowed to enjoy it, and also, curse you for making me talk about my feelings. But also thank you.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Hunk patted him on the back, and wow, Hunk really did give the best hugs.

“Also, before the apology, can we go search for my PH kit? Don’t get me wrong, It was a convenient excuse, but also, I genuinely wasn’t making that up.”

 

* * *

 

Standing in front of someone’s house and waiting for them to answer the door was way more of an ordeal that it sounded. For one, stopping himself from running away and living with the sin of an inadvertent ding-dong ditch took all of Lance’s energy. For another, there was way too much to look at.

Like, since when did Keith have a cat! Or a succulent shelf? Succulent windowsill? Succulents. For that matter, why did Keith have a cat that didn’t have the sense to perch somewhere other than a windowsill cluttered with cacti? Blue would never do something so—

The door opened, and right, Lance was supposed to be prepping by getting into an apologetic mindset, not getting competitive over their _cats!_

Keith’s face crumpled from bemused neutrality to wary displeasure in half a second. Which, okay, Lance deserved that. Still, it didn’t bode well for the impending conversation.

But whatever. One of Lance’s specialties was bracing for impact.

“Are you here to yell at me again?” Keith asked, voice flat. His hand was still on the door knob.

Lance winced. “I’ve been kind of a jerk.”

“Kind of?”

Lance grit his teeth, then sighed. He couldn’t let himself get riled up and defensive; not if he wanted to get better. Besides… Keith was right.

“I’ve been dealing with a lot of stuff recently, and that doesn’t excuse me taking it out on you, but I did, and I’m sorry.”

Keith’s face was impassive. He crossed his arms, then, after a small eternity: “Do I get to know why?”

There was a beat of silence where neither of them spoke. Lance clenched his fists, his mouth working to speak, but nothing came out. Everything felt like an excuse, and… he was trying, he was, but it felt like he was being asked to hand Keith a  loaded gun while holding a ‘shoot me please’ sign.

Then, Keith huffed out a breath. Almost a sigh, almost a scoff. “Alright,” he said.

“Alright?” Lance hedged, afraid to hope.

“You’re not forgiven,” Keith said, and Lance’s heart clenched. “I don’t know why I should. Whenever I try to help, you start stabbing yourself in the foot just to spite me, I don’t even know who you are—”

“That’s why.” The words were out of Lance’s mouth before he could stop them. He closed his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see Keith’s reaction. “I tried… I tried so hard to work towards where you were. You were always top of the class; you had everything I wanted, but I thought that was alright because eventually I could get there.” He took in a steadying breath.

“It was fine. Right up until I realized that no one cared how hard I was working because I was always a step behind. I wasn’t even competition. I was nothing.” Lance opened his eyes, but still couldn’t bring himself to look at Keith.

“So, when I saw you here, not even flying anymore, I just—” He puffed out the breath he was holding. “But that’s— that’s my problem, isn’t it? What you choose to do— that’s not something I get to pass judgement on. I’m just being a huge je—”

“Jack-ass.”

Lance’s attention snapped to Keith, eyes fixing on him.

Keith buried his hand in his hair. “Looked like you were about to say something more PG.” He looked off at the wall, staring intently at nothing in particular, and why did he have to be so inscrutable all the time? Couldn’t he just do the morally responsible thing and broadcast what he was thinking?

“Alright,” he said again. “You know where you screwed up, right? That’s what I’m getting from this.”

Lance bristled, then beat down his own defensiveness with a stick until it deflated. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“Can you promise me, right here, right now, that you’re not gonna pull that shit again?”

Lance took a moment, then nodded. “I promise.”

“Alright.”

“Alright?” Lance was getting really tired of that word.

Keith extended his hand. “You’re Lance McClain, right? You might not remember me, but my name’s Keith Kogane. We went to the Garrison together.”

Lance looked down at his hand and, oh. Oh.

Keith was offering a fresh start.

For a moment, it was a rush of temptation, and Lance was halfway to accepting the hand before faltering. But… That was the easy way out.

Lance didn’t want to press restart and pretend that he was never a jerk, or that they got off on the right foot immediately. He was going to be better, but he needed the collateral of his mistakes. To be better than before, he needed the before.

“Instead of asking for a clean slate, can I ask for a second chance?”

Keith looks at him for a long moment, then shook his head, sighing. “Do you still have that geode?”

What.

“The— you mean the one I had the first time I…” Came over and yelled on your porch. “Was here?”

“Yeah.”

“I have _a_ geode,” Lance said, still confused. He fumbled for the straps of his backpack. “Why?”

“I’ll process it for you,” Keith said, stepping to the side to clear the doorway.

 

* * *

 

The note Lance got in the mail the next day was about as simple and unadorned as the slingshot it came with. “If you go back down to the mines,” it read, “at least try to protect yourself.”

Lance squinted at it for a while, rolling the slingshot in his hands. It wasn’t a challenge. Not after the day before. But then… what was it?

Eventually, Blue came over to sniff at the fun, new object. Probably to see if it was edible.

“What do you think, Blue?” Lance asked.

Blue chirped up at him, then, after realizing head scritches were not forthcoming, wandered off.

Well, after such an expert evaluation, Lance could definitively conclude that it wasn’t, like, emanating evil intent. So it was probably fine?

In the end, Lance put it in his backpack. Last time he’d deliberated over the intention behind a gift from Keith, he’d ended up passed out in a mine. Which, judging by the note, was the opposite of what Keith wanted, so accepting the gift was probably his best bet.

Still, Lance really couldn’t even begin to understand the inner workings of Keith’s mind.

But, well, that was probably better than making assumptions, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> too bad pidge holds grudges way longer than keith does. but Lance'll deal with that later
> 
> For now we celebrate Lance taking steps towards a healthier headspace and healthier interactions


	9. There's a Difference Between Knowing How to Keep Your Head Above Water and Learning How to Catch a Buoy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grant me the Serenity to Accept the Things I Cannot Change,  
> Courage to Change the Things I Can,  
> And A Lesbian Mermaid Alien Friend to Teach Me The Difference

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! It's been a while! Remember how I said 23 credits in a semester was a bad idea? Taking a capstone in your sophomore year is also a shockingly bad idea in its own fresh and sexy way. Some life issues also cropped up, but that's its own thing.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with this fic, even with the unexpected breaks!

Lance wasn’t afraid of going back to the mines. He wasn’t. Anyone who would even dare accuse him of such a thing needed to have a word with Blue, seeing as Lance was the one who saved her from the gaping maw of the mine’s entrance. Would someone afraid of the mines do that? Maybe. 

Blue was worth it, after all. 

Even so! Fear had nothing to do with Lance’s choice of activities. It just  _ happened _ to occur to him that he hadn’t really had any quality time with Plaxum, and he should really spend some of his rainy day chilling out and fishing with her. That was  it . New starts required resolutions, and making new friends was as good a one as any.  In any case , it wasn’t as if the mines would suddenly disappear one night. They could wait.

Besides, the ocean was nice. Plaxum might not have been that talkative at first, but if his family had taught him anything, it was how to coexist beachside. He’d never have reached the age of twelve if he hadn’t mastered that; his sister would have presided over his burial at sea. 

Plaxum seemed to be loosening up, anyway, which was a definite plus. 

Lance had worried that she hadn’t actually wanted to hang out, or that she had other things to do, so it was a relief when she started to talk a bit more and throw out the occasional joke. The rest of the day would have been really awkward if she wasn’t enjoying herse— 

“Catch!”

Lance startled, looking up just in time to make intimate acquaintance with the _ fish _ that Plaxum had just  _ thrown at him, _ and why! Why was this happening! There was a fish in his lap now! A fish! In his lap! 

After recovering from his startle response of just sitting there like a frozen lizard, Lance finally processed that one, there was freezing water soaking through his shirt, two, Plaxum wanted him to die, and three,  _ there was still a fish in his lap and it was still alive _ .  

Lance lurched as it flopped in his lap, its gills flaring, and instinctively, he pushed it back into the sea. 

A groan, low and exasperated, came from the water. “Now what’d you do that for? I  _ just _ caught it.”

_ “Plaxum?” _ It came out as more a shriek than a polite inquiry, but honestly? Honestly? Lance was well within his rights to shriek at this point!

She blinked at him— or, as much as she could anyway, with her inner eyelids sliding closed— and cocked her head. “Uh, yeah?”

“Why! Why would you...” Lance took in a deep, shuddering breath to calm himself down because he could not keep starting new relationships by yelling in other people’s directions, no matter how much he wanted to because why would anyone possibly throw a fish at another sentient being without warning? Why! Who would possibly think that—

He shook himself. None of that. No judgement until he got an answer. 

“Why did you throw a fish at me?”

Plaxum, if anything, looked confused. “Uh? Because we’re fishing?”

“You didn’t have to throw it!” Lance protested. “Use your words!”

“I did,” Plaxum said. “That word was catch. It’s  _ pretty _ universal.”

Lance looked up, sharply, but there wasn’t anything malicious or condescending in her expression. Just amusement at his expense, which… was forgivable, probably. However, some things could not be borne silently.

“You know what else is universal? The idea that throwing things at people is almost always a no-no!”

Plaxum looked away. “If you didn’t want the fish, you could have just said so.”

“That’s not really the issue he—” Lance drew up short in realization. Had Plaxum been trying to give him a gift? 

He stared at her for a long moment, then let out a slow breath. 

“The fish wasn’t the problem,” he said. “And I  _ am _ sorry about dumping your gift into the ocean like I’m the antagonist in a cheesy movie. I just wasn’t expecting a fish to come flying at me.”

Lance allowed a grin to slide across his face with the ease of a fish being pushed out of a lap. Or something.   

“So,” he chirped, “I think it’s only fair that I pay you back. The second I catch a fish, it’s over for you.” 

“Oh no,” Plaxum intoned, the sarcasm in her voice marred a bit by her relieved smile, “whatever shall I do when you throw fish, that I eat, straight into my waiting hands.” 

Lance stuck his tongue out her for want of a better response. 

“Careful,” Plaxum said, voice cheery. “If your face gets stuck like that, you’ll scare off the fish. We’re not getting near the usual amount today, as is.” Her tail lashed out behind her, a stream of color in the water.

“Maybe if you spent less time making fun of me and more time staying still, the fish might– and don’t quote me on this– bite?”

Plaxum blinked at him.“Oh yeah, wise guy?” She laughed, which sounded a bit like someone choking on toothpaste. “Who’s the one who already caught one here?” 

Lance stuck his tongue out at her.

Plaxum shrugged, unimpressed. “Face it, I have a leg up on you— or tail, really.” She flicked the appendage in question. “This thing? More effective than anything you could attach to that stick. If I tried ‘staying still,’ I’d never catch anything.” She grinned. “They see the movement, think they’re in for a feast, then, surprise!” She laughed. “They’re the feast.”

“That’s terrifying,” Lance said, making a face. 

Plaxum shrugged. “That’s dinner.”

Lance shook his head, smiling despite himself. It was weird, how even that morbid note couldn’t bring the mood down. Everything felt a little muted— all soft around the edges and bound up in quiet companionship. 

Maybe Lance had missed making new friends more than he thought.

“Lance?”

“Mm?” Was his bobber moving, or was it a wave?

“I, um... I am sorry about the fish throwing thing.”

Lance peered at Plaxum out of the corner of his eye, bemused. 

“I didn’t warn you about it before it was happening, and I know that some people are more…” Plaxum winced. “I know people can react badly to things like that, and it’s my bad for throwing things without checking. 

Huh. So that’s what it felt like to be on the other end of an apology. 

“Don’t worry about it,” Lance said. “I mean... Thank you for the apology, and yeah, you should probably give people warnings in the future, but I was more startled than anything.” He half-shrugged, his shoulder rising and dipping again with the jerky hesitance of an abandoned seesaw in a windstorm. “So, yeah. No worries here.” 

Plaxum nodded, her expression clearing. “Thanks.” She paused for a moment. “Honestly, I’m a little rusty with the whole… interaction thing. I’m mostly doing research and making sure Swirn has his figures right when he gets ready to lobby, so this is kind of new for me.”

“Oh thank quiznak.” And he’d said that out loud. Great. Lance would have slapped his hands to his mouth if he wasn’t holding a fishing pole.

“I mean,” he started, “I’m pretty rusty too, is what I mean to say. So it’s, y’know, comforting? That someone else might also be out of their depth.”

Plaxum laughed, and Lance may not have meant to make that pun but he would sure as heck take credit for it. 

Then, Plaxum’s expression changed to something hesitant and polite, and Lance was absolutely sure he knew what was coming next but helpless to stop it, like one of those dreams where he was stuck to the roof of a ship during takeoff. 

“Just so we’re clear, Lance— you seem like a great guy, and I’d love to be friends—”

“Friends is great!” Lance said, probably too loud and energetic because Plaxum looked sympathetic, and that wasn’t… How did Lance get into this situation? Why was this happening. 

“Really, I’m serious. I just wanted to hang out because you seemed like a good potential friend, to, like, hang out with. Platonically.”

Plaxum looked at him, her eyes measuring, then sighed in relief. “Okay. Okay, that’s great; I really didn’t want to have the ‘you’re great, but I’m a lesbian’ talk.” 

“No, I get you completely,” Lance rushed to agree. “I kind of figured? Not because of— I’m bi, let’s get that out of the way, but you just give off very lesbian, uh…” He scrambled for words. 

Plaxum looked like she was trying very hard to hold back a laugh. “Thanks. I try to give off as much ‘lesbian, uh’ as possible.”

“You do! You sure do. Do that. You sure do do that really well.” When would the universe finally take action against Lance’s crimes and physically close his mouth? When would his pain end?

Plaxum snorted, shaking her head. A relieved grin bloomed on her face, easy and languid. “I really am glad, you know. The only reason people usually come down here is to play during the summer, since it’s not that warm the rest of the year, and it’d be awkward to just break into someone else’s time with their friends, y’know?”

“Yeah, totally,” Lance agreed, as if that wasn’t how he’d met most of his best friends.

“I mean, some people do come out here to fish, but not often. And it’s not like that blacksmith guy is ever gonna say hi, so… not really spoiled for choice, here.”

“You really know how to make a guy feel special,” Lance drawled. Then, the words registered. “Wait. Blacksmith?”

“Mm.” Plaxum hummed absentmindedly in confirmation. “He just kind of sits on the dock and stares into space. Not really easy to approach. Or entertaining. So! People watching’s out.” 

Huh. 

“And it was definitely the town blacksmith you saw?” Lance asked, and wow, that came out way too intense. 

“Uh, yeah?” Plaxum shot him a narrow look, her fins flapping in confusion. “I don’t stare at him all day, if that’s what you’re asking, but he’s pretty much always doing the same thing.” Her eyes narrowed even more. “Why do you ask?”

Lance tried not to grimace. He had to be careful with his words. He was trying; he really, really was, but his first instinct was to fire back about how in-character Plaxum’s description seemed.

But now… With Pidge’s words in his ears, and Keith laughing at one of Hunk’s jokes in his mind’s eye, well.

Lance wasn’t sure that was true anymore. But maybe it wasn’t as not-true as he thought?

“Okay, seriously, Lance. What’s the deal?” Plaxum flicked water at him, which, while uncalled for and  _ beyond _ rude, did bring Lance back to the present.

“You know when someone has to be a certain way because if they’re not, then you have to see them another way, but once you start seeing them that other way, you realize that way doesn’t fit either, and you’re not sure that you’re even seeing them at all?”

“I know that I have completely no idea what you just said.” Plaxum gaped at him. “Can you rewind a bit? Because I did not catch any of whatever just came out of your mouth.”

“I don’t know!” Lance pushed a hand back through his hair, frustrated. “I thought that I knew Ke— _ someone, _ but that was ages ago, and we’ve both changed, and I’m not sure I ever really did know him? Them. Hypothetical person. So that’s weird.” He waved a hand in the air. “But when I find out that some things haven’t changed, it’s even weirder because, like, I can accept that people change— change is great! Even I—” Lance stopped himself from laying out his own plans to be better, but only barely. Those weren’t part of the issue.

“I guess…” He sighed. “I guess it’s just weird that I was right about some things, even though that doesn’t change how super wrong I was about other things.” It also made it agonizingly more apparent that Present Keith and Garrison Keith were the same person. Which! Lance hadn’t realized was a problem until just that moment. 

Things would be so much easier if Lance could just  _ unknow _ everything he’d ever learnt or thought or heard about Keith.

So much for not wanting a clean slate. Past Lance was a hypocrite and had earned every moment of suffering he’d endured.

“Okay,” Plaxum said, nodding. “I’m not going to pretend I’m even close to understanding, since you’re still being  _ really _ vague, and I feel like I’m supposed to pretend that you’re not talking about blacksmith dude, even though he’s the one who kickstarted this conversation—”

Lance squawked, but couldn’t find any actual words to contest her point.

“However, there is a bit of one size fits all advice that I can offer here,” Plaxum said. “Stop obsessing over other people, and concentrate on yourself.”

What?

“What?” Lance spluttered. “I am  _ not _ obsessing.”

“Okay, you’re not obsessing,” Plaxum said, patting his knee with a distinct air of condescension. “You’d know better than me. But you are spending way too much time and energy speculating on another person’s emotions and thoughts.” She tapped her hand on the dock. “So, this is me telling you that you don’t have to speculate. He’s not you. He’s his own person, and you’re never going to come anywhere close to understanding him by putting together some mental conspiracy board or putting him on a pedestal. Believe it or not, the best way to understand a person is to just go ahead and ask them what’s going on in their head. It takes five seconds.”

Lance gaped at her for a long moment. Then, helplessly, he began to laugh. 

“I thought you didn’t work with people much,” he accused. “That was _ not _ a lecture from someone with no interpersonal skills.”

“It was a lecture from someone with four younger siblings,” Plaxum said, her voice wry. “I hate to break it to you Lance, but—”

“I have younger brother written all over me, huh.”

“At least you’re aware.” Plaxum laughed. “Don’t worry about it. I’m done with the big sister preaching.”

“Oh, thank quiznak,” Lance said, the air leaving him in a rush. “I thought I escaped that after leaving Earth.”

“Oh Lance,” Plaxum said, her voice sympathetic even as she laughed in his face. “You’ll never escape that.” 

The rest of the afternoon was a blur of sibling stories— “Veronica blamed me, even though it was  _ her _ son who’d trapped the kid in the settee!”— interrupted only when either of them lobbed a fish at the other. Then, once the sun began to sink into the ocean, Plaxum bullied Lance into selling her his fish— even though he  _ knew _ she caught easily twice as much as he did. She’d barely finished saying goodbye before she took off like a missile.

Lance stared out at ocean for a long, incredulous moment, then started to laugh, long and hard. He sat back on his hands, grinning. He’d stay just a little longer. 

Just until the sun had finished setting.

 

* * *

 

The upper limit to the amount of chores Lance could complete before admitting he was scared of the mines must have been lower than anticipated, considering he had rammed his head straight into it. If there were any more loose branches hanging around the farm, they were hiding, and he couldn’t break open any boulders with his grandpa’s rusty pickaxe, so that was out. 

The farm looked better than ever: clean, organized, and clear. Too bad it left Lance with nothing to do.

He couldn’t even start planting with the newfound open space. With the season so close to its end, not even Pidge’s seeds would have time to bear fruit, and that was saying something. Not that he had any to plant.

Lance winced. Pissing off his only source of seeds turned out to have a pretty ugly payoff matrix. Who could have guessed.

Well. He  _ could, _ potentially, buy some seeds from Galra Corp., but also, he’d rather fling himself down a mineshaft and land on a nest of acid slimes.

At least he’d have the opportunity soon enough, considering the mine was beginning to look like his only option for staving off boredom. Other than fishing with Plaxum, anyway, and she was busy. 

It was either the mines, or letting himself take a depression nap that lasted until the end of the summer, and no matter how tempting that sounded, Lance refused to shove the personal growth boulder aside when he’d just started pushing it up the hill. Besides, Hunk would get really concerned if Lance didn’t at least make it to the Flower Dance, and if he let himself spend a full day in bed, that’d be it. Game over. He’d have to say goodbye to his sense of time passing, kiss a fond farewell to his motivation to leave ever again, and probably piss off Blue in the process. She liked having the bed to herself during the day.

So. Mines it was.

Lance puffed out his cheeks, then took in a steadying breath. Resolved, he shot Hunk a text, letting them know where he was headed.

It was about time Lance tried out his new slingshot, anyway.

 

* * *

 

It had taken a while to get back into the swing of mining. Lance worked methodically and cautiously; not that he was scared! It just made more sense to be a little more vigilant, considering Hunk  _ had _ mentioned skeletons. That was very much a thing that Hunk had mentioned.

Even so, after a week of practice with his slingshot, Lance had been pretty sure he was ready for anything a skeleton could throw at him.

Lance was prepared for skeletons. He was not prepared for ghosts.

It would have been nice, perhaps, if Hunk had maybe spared the time to mention those.

They flickered in and out of view, and yeah, the fact that they looked as gauzy and vaguely bullet-shaped as a kindergartner’s halloween costume did help mitigate the scare factor, but that didn’t really lend much comfort when every time they drew too close the air froze, so cold that Lance’s bones ached and his skin burned. 

It just figured that one would corner him in a dead end. Fitting name.

Any chance at escape narrowed along with the passage, the ghost brushing up against the walls, barely fitting through. Which didn't actually matter, since it could just phase through the wall. Lance didn’t exactly have that luxury.

Lance’s breath started to hang in the air, given shape by the cold, and all he could do was press back against hard rock, watching as the ghost drew closer, bobbing up and down like a man of war on water. His gut clenched.

Was this really how this was gonna go? Lance passing out in the caves again? Then what? The cold taking him out for real this time? After he promised Hunk?

Not freaking likely.

Lance fumbled for his slingshot, and maybe this wasn’t the greatest idea, but it was  _ an _ idea at least. 

So what if this was a ghost! So what if they didn’t have physical forms! He had to do  _ something _ , or he was going to freeze before he found another ladder, and that would make Hunk sad, which was illegal. The least he could do was try and distract it enough to create an opening. Or, if that failed, maybe the ghost would get so irritated by Lance throwing things through it that it would leave. 

Yeah, right.

Lance let a piece of iron ore fly, falling back into sprinting position so that he could run at the first opportunity, except okay that definitely hit it. The ore… actually hit the ghost.

The ghost flickered away and then back, somewhere to Lance’s right, and without hesitating, Lance fired again, and okay. Alright. Lance was fighting a ghost.

Lance was  _ fighting a ghost _ , and he was  _ winning _ . 

Air left his lung in a rush because he was laughing, and whether or not it was hysterical wasn’t up for debate because no one else would be able to report otherwise and interfere with Lance’s perfect, unsoiled notion of exactly how cool this was. 

Lance wasn’t sure how many shots it had taken, but his pack was definitely lighter when the ghost finally vanished. One second it was there, and the next it wasn't; this time, however, rather than flickering, it kind of caved in on itself. It was like there wasn’t room for it anymore— like the air folded around it and took its place. The only thing it left behind was a ringing wail that filled up more space than the ghost ever had, and something that glinted as it clattered to the floor.

Lance walked over to where it had been floating last, glancing around suspiciously. The ghost didn’t come back. The wail petered out too, which hopefully meant that Lance wouldn’t be cursed forever to hear the voices of the damned or whatever the heck. 

Reassured that he wasn’t dying by ghost tonight, Lance squinted down at whatever it had dropped. There were two glimmering objects resting on the frost-covered floor. One looked like pure sunshine, almost; it hurt to  stare  at it too long.

Lance fumbled for his notebook, and crowed when he matched it to the drawing of the last thing he needed for one of the Junimo’s bundles. He drew a thick line through ‘Solar Essence’ on the list, then tucked the notebook away. 

The other item was either pyrite, or…

There was no way a ghost was carrying around gold ore, right?

No way.

Lance stared at it for a long moment.

Well. That was a problem— or reward— for future Lance. Present Lance was tired and deserved a break because he had just delivered an impromptu exorcism without any training or forewarning. 

Wait. Lance had just exorcised a  _ ghost _ with  _ no training _ . 

_ How awesome was that? _

“Take that, ghosts!” He yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Who’s scary now?” 

After a moment, frost began to crawl along the wall, and nope! No, ghosts were still the scary ones, actually!

Lance ran for the ladder. Ghost slayer or no, there had to be a limit to what could be expected of him in a single evening.

Or a week, even. Honestly, he deserved an entire  _ two _ week’s break for his bravery, but he would graciously accept a day or two’s rest and recovery. He’d earned some me-time. 

Lance stumbled into bed around one in the morning, already imagining what he’d do with his day-off, when he caught sight of his calendar. He froze.

“No,” he whined. “Oh no…”

The Flower Dance, circled twice in red, taunted him. “Yes,” it insisted, and Lance uncharitably gave it the voice of his ex-supervisor over at Galra Corp. “Oh yes.”

Lance would not cry. He would mourn his lost me-time stoically. It deserved that much; after all, it had died in the line of duty. It helped that he didn’t have time to cry. 

With only eight hours until the festival, he barely had time to sleep, much less ensure that the bags under his eyes weren’t noticeable to make Hunk worry. 

Lance’s life would be a lot easier if Hunk cared just a little bit less sometimes. Then again… 

He smiled as he sprawled on the bed. Who was he kidding? He’d take Hunk at their absolute fussiest over having a friend who didn’t care at all.

Things were better this way.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got a bit long-- it hit around 8K-- so I've split it into two. The second half should be coming in the next day or so.


	10. Dancing Around Your Problems Only Works When Your Problems Know The Steps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It Takes Two to Overcome A Complex Interpersonal History Founded Entirely on Schrödinger's Misconceptions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how in Stardew your literal only shot at getting a dance for the Flower Festival in the first year is giving Haley two presents each week and remembering her birthday, or else you're sentenced to the corner to watch everyone else have fun-- now with the added co-op version of your friend seducing Haley and you having to lurk next to Clint?
> 
> Yeah.
> 
> Do your best, Lance.

In Lance’s defense, he’d thought dropping off the solar essence would take less time.

It sure didn’t help that it was a lot harder to get to Flower Dance than he remembered. Which   _did_ make sense, considering the last time he’d gone, Gramps had carried him the whole way. Being six years old and easily tired made that pretty much unavoidable. By the time Lance was old enough to actually dance at the festival, he was old enough to be embarrassed about having no one to dance with, so he’d utilized all of his teenage strategic acumen to ensure his visits to Gramps wouldn’t overlap with the Flower Dance.

So if Lance was a _little_ late to a festival he hadn’t attended in almost twenty years, who could blame him?

“Lance!”

Hunk could blame him.

“Glad you could make it!” Hunk enveloped him in a hug, warm and soft, and okay, maybe the blame _was_ tabled after all. Huh. “I was worried you’d gotten lost.”

“Pft, me?” Lance rolled his eyes. “Never. I’m basically a survivalist at this point. Natural sense of direction.”

“Uh-huh.” Hunk laughed, pulling back. “Is that why you—”

“Sorry to interrupt, Hunk,” a voice interrupted, like a liar, “but we could really use— Oh, hi, Lance.”

Lance turned around, finding himself face to face with Shiro. He looked startled for a moment, and then, weirdly enough, amused. Or sympathetic? Amused sympathy.

“Sorry to steal Hunk from you, but some of the wiring for the speakers is on the fritz, and the Holts are making Pidge take the day off.”

Hunk looked at Lance, their face crumpled the way it only ever got when they were really conflicted.

Lance would be lying if he said he wasn’t a little disappointed about losing his only surefire conversational partner, but no one could miss how Hunk’s eyes had lit up at the promise of something to fiddle with, and, well, who could say no to that face?

Lance patted their back. “You heard the man. Step to it, buddy.”

“Alright.” Hunk grinned at Shiro. “Take me to ground zero.” They snickered at their own joke, nudging Lance when he refused to validate it with any response other than than a low, disappointed groan. “You know? Ground. Because I’m gonna be working with wiring.”

“You’re the _worst_ ,” Lance said, smiling despite himself. He shoved at them, about as effectual as a gnat beating against a window. “Go play with your wires.”

“You say, like you won’t miss me as soon as I’m gone.” Hunk sniffed, but the concern behind their goofing was obvious.

“I’ll be _fine_ , Hunk,” Lance said, and it was only partly a lie.

“If you say so,” Hunk said. They nodded at Shiro, then rubbed their hands together. “Let’s go.”

Shiro paused for a moment, mouth partly open like a student who hadn’t expected to be called on. Then he shook his head, his eyebrows knitting together.

“Sorry again for stealing Hunk, Lance,” Shiro said. “I’ll return them in a bit. Promise.”

“No worries,” Lance said, a bit bewildered. It wasn’t that big of a deal. He’d just stand around awkwardly and try to work up the nerve to talk to someone. Just like ye olde middle school times. Dark days, but not insufferable.

“In the meantime, feel free to drag my brother out of his brooding corner.” Shiro gestured over to the northeast corner of the clearing. “I didn’t spend all that effort getting him out here just so he could try and pretend to be some kind of moss.”

“Your brother?” Lance turned to where Shiro had pointed, curious. He’d only heard bits and pieces about Shiro’s mysterious sibling, and it seemed like—  

 _Oh._ His brother was _Keith_. Alright! Might as well be! Sure!

Lance squinted, just to be sure, and no, there were no other people tucked away in the corner because most people who came to festivals actually wanted to be there, unlike Keith, who was apparently doing his best to become one with the tree he was leaning against.

Well, that was typical. Lance rolled his eyes, ready to turn back to Shiro and tell him exactly what Keith might think of his suggestion, then froze.

Who was Lance to say what was typical for Keith?

Lance glanced towards where Keith was standing, considering. The facts as he knew them— didn’t matter actually because, yeah, he was doing exactly what Plaxum accused him of, huh? Compiling a veritable court record of reasons Keith might not want to hang out with people at the Flower Dance when he had no such problems at the Egg Festival.

Plaxum’s voice rung in his ears. “Believe it or not, the best way to understand a person is to just go ahead and ask them what’s going on in their head.”

He groaned. He was gonna have to be an adult about this, wasn’t he?

Well, it wasn’t as if he had an alternative; everyone at the dance who knew Lance well enough to gossip with him knew better than to gossip with him about _Keith_ , which was beyond unfair, and Hunk and Shiro had already wandered off to fix the wires or whatever.

Lance would just have to suck it up and ask Keith why he was acting like he’d been possessed by the vengeful spirit of his highschool self.

Determined, Lance strode towards Keith, opened his mouth, and asked, “Do you remember the awful formal we had to go to at the academy?”

Keith stared at him for a long moment, eyes wide, which was justified because, really? Really? _That’s_ what came out of Lance’s mouth? _Really?_

“Not really,” Keith said, finally. “ I ditched. I’ve never really, uh, liked dances much.”

“Never would have guessed,” Lance said. Then, scrambling for something, anything to soften the sharp look Keith shot him, he added, “I wish I had ditched. Got dumped instead.”

Keith raised his eyebrows. “At the formal, or here?”

“Wh—” Lance spluttered. “I haven’t— Who do you— When would I have even had time to get a date to this?”

“I don’t know!” Keith defended. “I didn’t think anyone willingly came to this festival alone.”

“They don’t,” Lance said. He jerked his head over to where Hunk and Shiro were squatting by a tangled web of wires. “Hunk made me come.”

“Mmm.” Keith looked over at the two of them. “Same with Shiro.”

Lance was about to ask why Shiro would have to force Keith in the first place, considering Keith was supposed to be Mr. Social nowadays instead of Broody McLonesome, when Keith cut him off at the pass.

“Hunk was here before you, though,” Keith said, and wow, thanks, Captain Obvious. Welcome to Caught-Up Junction, population: everyone in the clearing.  

“Uh, yeah?”

Keith looked at him expectantly, and really, what reaction was he expecting? After a moment, he sighed.

“You didn’t come together?”

“Oh! No,” Lance said. “They just wanted me to check in, socialize, the works. They get worried about me, y’know?”

“Yeah, I do.” Keith hummed, a fond smile on his face, and oh. Oh, he did know. Huh.

Lance took a deep breath. It was a good thing that Hunk had other friends. It was. Lance wasn’t being replaced.

“So, why were you late?” Keith asked, breaking through the fog.

Lance looked at him, confused. Hearing smalltalk from Keith, of all people, would never stop being weird.

Keith jerked his head at a fresh scratch on Lance’s hand. “You’re kind of roughed up, so...” He shrugged. “Was wondering if the two were connected.”

Ah. It wasn’t smalltalk after all. The balance of the universe was saved.

“Oh, that,” Lance said, looking down at his hand. “I had to finish up a—”

He cut himself off. Was he really about to casually drop that he’s been helping forest spirits restore a community center? That he’d wrestled a mysterious substance from a ghost to give to said forest spirits? In what universe would anyone— who wasn’t a cape-loving wizard moonlighting as a psychologist— believe him?

“I’ve been working pretty hard to fix up the farm,” Lance said, trying not to wince as his voice pitched. “Guess I lost track of time.” Not technically a lie. Not the whole truth, either, but, well. What could he do.

“Haven’t had time to go in the mine much recently then, huh?”

“Not really,” Lance said, and okay, that one was one hundred percent on him. He was a lying liar who lies. “Though…” He scrambled for anything that wasn’t built on a foundation of lies. “I do have a lot of ore built up, so if you want them, that’s a thing.”

“Weren’t you gonna use those to craft your own tools?” Who gave Keith the right to smirk? Who allowed this to happen?

Lance made a pained sound that had more in common with Blue when she wanted outside than the respectable, noncommittal grumbling he was aiming for.

Keith snorted. “Don’t sweat it. Besides, I could use ingots more, anyway.”

Lance was about to fire back that since _someone_ had sent him blueprints for a foundry, he might as well shove some ingots Keith’s way; however, as he opened his mouth to speak, he caught sight of one _very_ angry pigeon.

Pidge marched over, face stormy enough to rival the combined might of the past month’s rainfall.

Lance flinched, freezing in place. He’d told himself he could handle Pidge’s wrath, yeah, but he was talking about some hypothetical day sometime in the next, like, two weeks! Not now! He wasn’t mentally prepared!

He took a deep breath. He could pull it together. He could. In the next five seconds. Probably.

Lance steeled himself, straightening his back. He took in another deep, steadying breath, opened his mouth, and watched as Pidge breezed right past him and plunged an accusing finger into Keith’s jacket.

“ _You_ ,” she bit out, more of an expletive than a pronoun, “are going to dance.”

What.

“What?” Keith asked, eyebrows knitting together. “No.”

“What, yes,” Pidge countered. “You’re dancing. If I have to, you have to. Besides, you should be overjoyed— you love this nature shit.”

Keith spluttered. “You literally engineer this ‘nature shit’!”

“Yeah, in a _climate controlled_ setting, free of cross-contaminants, where I don’t have to worry about sweating to death while my brain runs out of my nose in a brave but pointless sacrifice to stave off the deadly threat of _pollen_.” Pidge huffed, blowing hair out of her face in the process. “And if I have to deal with the three-day runny nose this flower crown is going to give me, you have to suffer through busting a few moves.”

Keith’s eyes darted around as if he were looking for an escape. “Uh, my feet aren’t… working today?” He winced. Probably because that excuse was an embarrassment to not only him, but to anyone who had to hear it.

Lance might have deserved some sort of punishment, but being forced to listen to this was just cruel.

“Your feet aren’t working today.” Pidge’s voice was flatter than some of Hunk’s levels.  

Keith shrugged, and well, if there was anything Lance could respect, it was doubling down and defending whatever hot nonsense happened to tumble off the tongue.

“You’re standing right now,” Pidge said. “On your feet. That aren’t working, apparently.”

Keith looked straight ahead for a solid moment, then, bit by bit, started to fold in on himself like a collapsible umbrella: all stuttering, sliding movements towards the ground. Then, just as he was hovering above the grass, he let himself fall the remaining distance.

For someone who’d just done something completely ridiculous, Keith managed to inject a lot of challenge into the way he glowered up at Pidge.  

Pidge rolled her eyes, amusement finally breaking through her expression like a glimpse of sun through clouds.  “You’re ridiculous.”

Keith maintained his glare for a solid two seconds before his mouth started to twitch. One shoulder shrugged, lethargically. “Maybe.”

“You’re not making me suffer through this by myself,” Pidge said. It wasn’t a question.

Keith’s answering sigh was heavy enough that it could weigh someone to the ocean floor.

Lance let his eyes flicker between the two of them: Keith, looking like he’d been sentenced to an unjust execution, and Pidge, more unwilling to cede ground than an undefeated general.

Let it never be said that Lance was heartless.  

“Give him a break, Pidge,” Lance said, flashing a winning, if shaky, smile at her. “He—”

“Oh?” Pidge rounded on him faster than Lance could blink, much less finish his thought. _“I_ should give him a break? What an intriguing proposal you have there! What a nuanced and well-reasoned position!” Her expression had more in common with a predator baring its teeth than a grin.

“Pidge,” Keith said, voice pitched in warning as he started to stand back up, and wait, was Keith defending him?

Oh, that was _so wrong._

“No, Keith, he’s right,” Pidge said, nodding decisively. She crossed her arms. “I should do the _mature_ thing and get some distance from this conversation before one of us says something we regret. It’s only right that a _reasonable_ person would at least attempt to understand the other’s side of things, right?”

With that, she fixed Lance with the same fierce smile and stalked away. There was a long beat of silence, like the quiet after a hurricane.

“Yeah,” Keith dragged out the word, wincing. “She’s still pretty pissed.”

Lance felt his face do something complicated without his permission. He bit the inside of his cheek.

“Yeah,” he said, after a moment. “Yeah, that’s fair.”

“I…” Keith hesitated for a moment, mouth partially open in a mirror image to Shiro’s earlier expression, and oh, that’s where the family resemblance came in. “I’ll talk to her.”

“You _really_ don’t need to do that!” Lance’s voice came out like an airhorn, ripping out of him in an ear-splitting burst. He waved his hands in the universal sign for ‘I beg you, if you have ever respected me as a person, please stop immediately before I fall, weeping, to the ground and suffocate on my own tears’.

“Pretty sure I do?” Keith cocked his head with the skeptical confusion of a cat being told that they’d been fed an hour ago. “You farm. You kind of need her seeds to survive.”

“Okay, yeah,” Lance admitted. “But I also need to work on fixing things myself. I can’t just rely on you to solve my problems.”

Keith stared at him for a long moment without blinking. Then he looked away, sighing.

“Don’t try to be a martyr.”

“Hey!”

Keith huffed out a breath. “Besides, it’s my problem too.” His mouth set in a firm line. “I appreciate what Pidge is trying to do, but I really don’t need someone defending me.”

“Now who’s the martyr?” Lance crossed his arms.

“That’s…” Keith opened and closed his mouth. “Do you— Do you understand what…” He closed his eyes, then sighed. “Okay.”

Lance bristled, ready to defend himself, when he heard a familiar voice call his name. He looked up, and, yeah, there was Plaxum, arms pulled up onto the shore of the river at the other end of the clearing. A group of merpeople were chatting a short distance away from her.

He looked between her and Keith, strangely torn, and okay, this was new. New and _weird_ , since the last time Lance checked, Plaxum would win any competition between the two for Most Enjoyable Conversation Partner.

Still. Talking to Keith hadn’t been the worst? And it might have been nice, maybe, to see if it continued to not be terrible.

“Looks like your friend really wants to talk to you,” Keith observed, and Lance’s decision was made for him.

“What can I say? I’m a popular guy.”

Keith snorted— honest to goodness snorted— and Lance had to work not to stare. Keith wouldn’t take it well if he caught Lance checking for signs that he’d been replaced with a pod person.

“Alright, Mr. Popular,” Keith said, jogging Lance out of his thoughts. “See you around.”

Lance grinned, shooting him a lazy salute, then jogged over to the river to see what Plaxum wanted. Some of the merpeople looked curious at his approach, but soon went back to their conversations.

“Heya,” Plaxum greeted, looking genuinely happy to see him, and wow, Lance had forgotten how good that felt.

Note to self: making and keeping friends tended to make for a happier Lance. Secondary note to self: fixating on how sad it was that he had to be reminded of that did _not_ make a happy Lance, so it was probably best to think about literally anything else.

“Hi, Plaxum. How’s work been?”

“I’m going to kill Blumfump, but what else is new,” Plaxum responded. “The ‘memo’ he gave me yesterday looked more like a shopping list.” She couldn’t roll her eyes, but Lance could feel the specter of it wafting off her in waves. The abstract notion of rolled eyes, haunting them with the same determined attention to detail that Blumfump’s-soon-to-be-ghost lacked, apparently.

“Lance?”

Lance pulled himself back to the present. “Sorry, zoned out a bit. What did you say?”

“I was asking if you’d caught anything good recently,” Plaxum repeated.

“I wish.” Lance made a face. “Every time I fish on my farm, I just get sunfish, sunfish, and more sunfish.”

“That’s because it’s Spring, and you’re only fishing in one place, nerd.” Plaxum laughed. “If you’d visit the ocean more often, you wouldn’t have this problem. You don’t even have to visit me! Believe it or not, it’s public property.”

“I do visit! A lot!”

The specter of Plaxum’s unrolled eyes visited them once more.

“Yeah, when it’s _raining.”_

“That’s when the best fish bite!” Lance whined.

Plaxum’s unimpressed expression refused to do him the favor of melting.

“Fine,” he conceded. “I’ll hang out more when it’s Summer.”

“Great!” Victorious, Plaxum flashed him a grin that was all needle-sharp teeth. Then her face softened. “How’d things go with your friend?”

His friend?

Plaxum sighed, and wow, she was really good at radiating exasperation for someone who lacked a lot of the most expressive facial muscles. It might have been the tail lashing.

“The one who’s been staring at us for like eight straight minutes, Lance.” She gestured, and Lance followed her outstretched hand to where Keith was standing. Or had been standing, at least. At some point, he’d disappeared.

A mix of respect and confusion swirled in Lance’s stomach because, wow, Keith sure did risk the wrath of Pidge to flee as fast as his little blacksmith legs could carry him. He must have really wanted out of this festival.

“Huh,” Plaxum said. “That’s weird.”

“Eh,” Lance said, thinking about how Keith had faced the concept of dancing with the grace and aplomb of a cat being taken to the vet. “Maybe not so much.”

She stared for a moment longer, then turned her gaze back to Lance. “So?”

“So...what?”

“Did you manage to actually talk with him about things, or are you letting it go?” Plaxum asked.

Lance scrambled for an excuse, then pulled up short when he realized he didn’t need one. “He doesn’t like to dance,” he said, triumphantly.  

Plaxum stared for a moment, then sighed. “And that’s the burning question that absolutely had to be answered— the root of everything you wanted to know, huh?”

“Well, no,” Lance said, deflating. “I was mostly concentrating on why he was acting weird today? Instead of in general, I mean.”

“Alright,” Plaxum said, shaking her head. Then, she laughed. “You know what? It’s progress. Let’s call it at that.” She flicked her tail, splashing him with water. “Now, if you’re done agonizing over why you friend won’t dance, go enjoy yourself. I hear this festival is a lot of fun for people who can actually, y’know, participate.” She looked ruefully at the other merpeople, who, despite her words, looked to be having a pretty good time, even without dancing.

“I think I will,” Lance sniffed, rolling his eyes. Then, more sincerely. “Thanks, Plaxum.”

“Don’t mention it,” she said, flicking her tail at him. Then, she smiled. “Have fun, Lance.”

And to Lance’s surprise, he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that brings us to the end of Spring! Next up, Summer. Y'know, just like real life. In one hemisphere, anyway.


	11. The Natural Cycle of Life: Cultivating New Growth, Making Fatalistic Jokes, and Offering Gifts of Gold to Friendly Apple Spirits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a Saying About New Friends Being Silver, But Nothing About Having to Build Foundries for Them, Which Seems Like Either False Advertising or Poor Planning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't seen season 6 yet, which is a weird sentence to type, considering I started planning this fic before season 2 dropped, and posted the first chapter right before season 3. It's been a Whole Year. Wild. 
> 
> Anyway, I'll watch it tonight in the vain hopes that two girls will talk to each other. Wish me luck

The crops were dead.

Sure, Pidge  _ had _ said as much would happen once Summer came. Still… Expecting it didn’t lighten the blow as much as Lance thought it would.

He bent down to rub a withering, yellow frond between his fingers. It made a crackling noise, like an autumn leaf under a shoe. 

“Goodnight, sweet prince,” he said, giving the soil an affectionate pat. Then, he went to work pulling up the dead plants. At the very least, they had a rewarding new career as compost set before them; they would live on through their brethren, providing sustenance through the coming—

Okay, actually that sounded like weird, philosophical justification for plant cannibalism, so no. The plants were gonna be compost, and Lance was going to carefully  _ not _ think about broader implications any more than he had to. 

Instead, he was going to formulate a cunning plan. 

He needed seeds if he was going to survive the summer. Sure, the museum curator had given him some melon seeds in exchange for dropping off some of the funkier stuff he’d found in the mines— Ryner was cool like that— but a farm could not operate on melons alone.

No, Lance needed grade-A, certified freaky-as-all-get-out Pidge seeds, and he needed them fast. There were only twenty-eight days in the season, and he wasn’t going to waste any of them. 

Plus, it felt like a kick to the gut to know that he’d screwed up his budding friendship with Pidge so badly, so soon. 

He’d fix it, though. He had to.

Lance took a steadying breath, then wiped his hands on his jeans. He would have to be strategic about this— calm, cool, and collected. Determined, but not unyielding. Humble, but assured. He could do this. Pidge wouldn’t know what hit her.

 

* * *

 

“I’m really, really, really, really,  _ really _ sorry,” Lance pleaded, trying not to feel like he’d been sentenced to time-out, and failing. It was hard not to, after Pidge had pointed darkly at a chair in the corner and commanded him to sit. 

“I’m really, really, really,  _ really _ still at work, so I can’t hear you,” Pidge said, not looking up from the cash register. “That’ll be seven hundred and ninety-three gil, Hunk.”

“Is Lance in time-out?” Hunk asked, craning their head to look between the two of them. Somehow, that was worse than the curious glances the customers who  _ didn’t _ know Lance were shooting him.

“No!”

“Yes.”

“How long is his sentence?” Hunk asked, no guilt in their voice despite having betrayed their best friend in the galaxy. 

“Traitor!” Lance accused, swinging his legs in protest. 

“I love and support you completely,” Hunk called over their shoulder before turning back to Pidge. “Seriously though, how long are you keeping him in time out?”

“I am  _ twenty-five _ years old,” Lance protested, his voice very level and mature and nothing like a wail. 

“Well, what do we have here?”

The intruding voice was about as sincere as a shaving cream commercial— nauseatingly smooth, obsequiously solicitous, and designed to sell things. It was nostalgic, in a weird, terrible kind of way; the longer Lance had worked for Galra Corp, the more familiar that exact intonation had become. It was industry standard, just like everything else. Came with a demonstrated empathy quota and everything. 

Looking at the source of the voice was somehow even worse. The waves of corporate loyalty wafting off the new arrival were close to physically manifesting; this person wore their uniform like a soldier wore armor. 

Then, they smirked, and Lance changed his mind. Not armor. They weren’t defensive enough for that. Their chin was constantly tilted up, making their arrogant expression even worse, and their posture was too relaxed for what should have been enemy territory. They were practically eating up the bewildered stares of the store’s customers.

This person didn’t see their uniform as armor. They saw it as a freakin’ crown and scepter. 

Holy  _ quiznak _ , that was sad.

“What do you want, Lotor?” Pidge bit out, spine snapping straight as suddenly as a slap bracelet. 

Lotor’s eyebrows were the only parts of their face to move, which would be impressive if Lance wasn’t half convinced this person was a clone manufactured for the sole purpose of perpetuating corporate greed. 

Some small part of Lance felt guilty for dunking on someone who was probably in the same position he’d been in only a few months prior. The rest of Lance remembered every supervisor he’d ever had who shared Lotor’s exact smirk, and determinedly beat back the guilt with a large stick. 

Besides, Hunk was positioning themself between Lotor and Pidge, which was as good as a signed condemnation of character, as far as Lance was concerned. If Hunk didn’t like someone, something was  _ seriously _ janked up.  Poisoning the local water supply levels of janked up.

“Why wouldn’t I visit my favorite competitor?” Lotor asked. 

“Gee, I wonder why I wouldn’t want some—” Pidge stopped, glancing at the milling customers.  _ “Jerk _ with too much time on his hands waltzing into our store. Don’t you have anything better to do?”

“Ms. Holt, I’ll have you know that nothing takes priority over being in touch with my local community,” Lotor said, voice oozing with saccharine conviction.

“Great. That makes things easy: this community wants you gone.” Pidge said, voice dry enough that a spark would set it ablaze. The fire department wouldn’t stand a chance. 

“That is a rather frigid welcome for someone who only came to give you fair warning,” Lotor said.

Lance tensed, his hands clenching before he’d even registered the words. He knew this battlefield. His eyes narrowed, and he moved to stand— too slow.

The grin and subsequent throat clearing were warning shots.  

“After all,” Lotor said, delivering the finisher with sudden volume, projecting so that everyone in the shop could hear, “Galra Mart is having a half-off sale.”

“Half—” Pidge’s expression froze, a mask of rage.  _ “Half-off?” _

“For how long?” Lance countered, stepping forward. He raised his voice, matching Lotor blow for blow.

Pidge shot him a dirty look, and he might have just made things worse, but he couldn’t just let Lotor get away with this. 

“For how long?” Lotor repeated, smiling, as if it was a funny joke, rather than a valid question. “I do apologize; are you asking for an explanation regarding how sales operate? They tend to be temporary by definition.”

“Oh, sure,” Lance said, a smile stretching his face. “After all, you’re selling at a loss. Can’t do that forever now, can you?” He shook his head. “No-siree. So, you’ll end the sale once you’ve driven the competition out, then hike up the prices once you have a monopoly. Isn’t that right?”

“Well.” Lotor fixed him with a tight smile. “I see at least one person here has an eye for business. Unfortunate that they appear to be in timeout.” Quiznak. Of course the jerk was eavesdropping. “Especially considering your timing leaves much to be desired.” He gestured around at the store’s diminished customers. “They were a bit too preoccupied  _ leaving _ to listen to your speech.”

“I truly am sorry,” Lotor apologized, turning to Pidge. “It must be so difficult for you to lose your valued customers like that.” He paused. “Loyalty is so rare, nowadays.”

“You wouldn’t know loyalty if it bit you on the—”

“Pidge!” Hunk yelped. 

Lotor’s expression hardened, then smoothed back into a mask. “Say what you like, but I don’t see any Galra Mart regulars paying  _ you _ a visit.” He looked around the shop, and if he didn’t get those eyebrows down from the arrogant heights of Mount Asshole sometime soon, Lance was going to punch them off. “But can you really blame them? Our store is clearly the superior choice. It’s only a matter of time before everyone realizes that.” 

“Like hell it is!” Pidge hissed.

Lotor shot her a look of amused condescension that he’d probably stolen from a rich grandmother. Then, as if it was beneath him to spend a moment longer conversing with the common folk, he walked out of the store.

Hunk, who had been drawn tighter than a bowstring, sunk back against the register. 

“You good there, buddy?” Lance pat them on the shoulder. 

“I really, really don’t like that guy,” Hunk said, rubbing at their eye in exhaustion. And, well, if Lance wasn’t already sure that Lotor was the devil, that would have convinced him. 

“Nice to know that Galra Corp is still full of smug assholes who think they’re better than everyone,” Lance drawled, jerking his chin at the door. 

“For once,” Pidge said, “you’re right about that. There go my weekend plans to teach you what ‘arrogant’ means. I had a slideshow prepared and everything.”

Hunk made a sound in protest, but Lance shook his head at them. He deserved that. He just really wasn’t expecting to be smacked in the face with it so soon after dealing with the nightmare in purple. 

“I was wrong about Keith,” Lance said. “And I—”

“Apologized already; I know.” Pidge rolled her eyes. “Kinda sussed that out after seeing you two hanging out at the festival, believe it or not.” She shrugged. “Plus, Keith talked to me a bit, so... Whatever.”

“What!” Lance tried not to emanate betrayal because that was  _ so _ not the way to convince Pidge that he was cool with Keith now. Still, it was a little hard when Keith was a  _ traitor! _ “He said he wouldn’t!”

“No,” Pidge said, leaning against the till. “He said  _ you _ told him not to because you have some ‘weird martyr bullshit going on’.”

“You kind of really do,” Hunk observed, ruffling Lance’s hair. “Not that that’s— No, it is a bad thing. I don’t know why I was going to say it wasn’t. I worry about you, like, all the time.”

Why was Lance doomed to be surrounded by incorrect moral judgements all the time? Why were his friends bent on ruining him personally?

_ “Anyway, _ ” Pidge continued, steamrolling over Lance’s potent and rational protests, “You and Keith obviously have history, or had it, anyway, but if it’s settled, that’s fine.” Her eyes fixed on him like a snake about to strike. “As long as you don’t have history with anyone else in the town.”

Hunk’s hand slowly crept into the air.

“Roommates don’t count, and that wasn’t the kind of history I was talking about.” Pidge crossed her arms. “Lance. Do you, or do you not have any beef with anyone else in this town?”

“I swear I don’t,” Lance promised. 

Pidge’s stare increased in power tenfold. How was it possible for it to  _ increase  _ in power?

“That I know of,” Lance qualified. He hadn’t exactly had time to meet every single person in town!

“Not even Lotor? You  _ did _ used to work at his company.” Pidge cocked her head. “That argument sounded personal.”

Lance held up two fingers, then counted off. “Yes, personal, but no, I don’t know him. I just— I’ve had enough of that whole…” He waved his hand. “That whole  _ thing _ he has going on. The smarmy profits over people thing. It sucks, and it almost killed me.” No health benefits, unreasonable hours, and a flight path that was only legal by technicality did not a winning combination make.

Hunk placed a comforting hand on Lance’s shoulder, and he leaned into it. 

Pidge stared at him for so long that she might as well have been bringing each and every atom of him up for cross-examination. Then, finally, she nodded. 

“Alright. Now, this is usually the part where I’m supposed to say that I was wrong too, but I wasn’t, so that’s not happening.” She paused. “However, a case could be made that I was, maybe, a bit too harsh at the Flower Dance. And one might, potentially, feel bad about that. Hypothetically.”

There was an apology buried somewhere in there, if Lance squinted, and he’d take what he could get. For the moment, he was still working his way through the stunned relief of Pidge actually forgiving him. Or, he thought she did, probably. 

“Now, what’s this I’ve been hearing about you passing out in mines?” Pidge asked, and Lance took it back, being forgiven was the worst.

“Hunk!”

Hunk threw up their hands. “Whoa! You  _ cannot _ blame that on me; the only person I talked with about that was— okay, so the only two— wait, three people. Three’s my final number!” At least they had the grace to look sheepish. “Keith was  _ there _ , Shay and I are literally married, and Coran is still the closest thing we have to a therapist, and my best friend passing out in an abandoned mine is  _ kind _ of distressing!”

“So how did Pidge find out about it, then?”

“Wow, great question,” Pidge chirped, eyes glittering. The menace. “Maybe you should try, I don’t know, asking her?”

Lance looked at her for a long moment, mouth slightly ajar. 

“Oh my— The Egg Festival? You and Keith talked about it right in front of me!” She shook her head. “Besides, I talk to Ryner a lot. She told me she was giving you some melon seeds, since you keep bringing her artifacts and minerals.”

“Oh.” Lance felt flattered for a moment that Pidge had talked about him, even when they were fighting, and  _ wait Pidge had been talking to someone else about him when they’d been fighting. _

He could never look Ryner in the eye again. She probably hated him now, or at least knew him as that weirdo farmer who couldn’t let go of teenage grudges. “Oh no.”

“She thinks you’re ‘a good boy, if a bit misguided’,” Pidge said. Well. That was probably better than thinking he was an immature blight on the town, at least. “She also called you silly, but she’s ancient, and that’s a compliment in the Language of The Elders. So…” Pidge shrugged. “I figured that if she liked you, it was worth hearing you out.”

Lance needed to find that woman some more cool rocks, asap. She may have just saved his friendship.

“Seriously, though, you’re not getting away with dodging the mines question.” Pidge leaned against the register. “I’ve been waiting for insight into this chain of bad decisions for half a month now. Cough up.”

“Or, I could preserve my silence and my dignity, buy all your seeds, and we agree to never discuss this again,” Lance said. 

“Lance,” Hunk prompted, using their patient voice, which was cheating. “We all know you’re going to buy her seeds either way; bribery isn’t going to get you out of this, buddy.”

“It  _ might _ have, if you’d let me try,” Lance whined.

“We’ll never know,” Pidge said, looking far too amused. “Now, stop stalling and tell me what happened already.”

“I tired myself out in the mines and someone had to come and get me. That’s it. End of story.”

“It was Keith, wasn’t it.”

Hunk snorted, then covered their mouth. A second later, they realized that wouldn’t hide their crimes and continued laughing. Traitor.

“How— Why— No!”

“Uh huh.” Pidge shook her head. “You are  _ way _ too easy to read.”

“ _ You’re _ way too easy to read,” Lance fired back because apparently he was eight years old.

Pidge rolled her eyes. She paused, as if waiting for something, then inclined her head. “So?”

“So what?”

“So, what else happened?” Pidge moved her hand in a circle, as if winding in an answer.

“That’s it,” Lance replied, jaw set. He crossed his arms. “Nothing else to it.” 

“That’s a coward’s answer. You’re lucky that this seed thing is a mutually beneficial arrangement, or I’d banish you from these lands for your insolence.”

“Yeah, but I’m a coward who’d really like to buy some of your pepper seeds, so you’re stuck with me.”

“Guess I am.” Weirdly enough, Pidge didn’t look too torn up about that. Weirder still, she dropped the subject and let him actually make his purchases.

Lance wasn’t naive enough to think that meant she’d dropped the subject for good, but for now, he’d take the reprieve.

 

* * *

 

The sun was an affront to all things living or dead, and it didn’t even have the grace to be ashamed of the atrocities it committed. It just glared down at the burning earth below with vengeance, sending wave after wave of dry heat down upon innocent farmers who had never done anything wrong in their life. Or, at least, nothing other than expecting kindness from a giant ball of plasma and hatred.

Lance was going to sweat to death. Even worse, he was going to sweat to death while building a foundry: a device designed to make things hotter. No wonder the sun was trying to smite him; he obviously deserved it for his hubris. Now, as payment for his sins, he was going to die, smelly and alone, and Blue would probably eat his corpse. He’d read something about that once. They usually went for the face first.

“Eating my face counts as destroying a work of art,” Lance informed Blue. “There are fines for those kinds of things.” 

She meowed back at him from the relative shade of the porch. It didn’t sound impressed. Then, as if that disrespect wasn’t enough from a traitor who was definitely going to ensure Lance had a closed casket funeral, she sauntered over to him, waited for him to reach down for the bag of cement, and jumped onto his back.

_ “Blue,” _ Lance whined. “I have to  _ work!” _

“And how is that going for you?”

Lance straightened in shock at the sound of Keith’s voice, accidentally dislodging Blue. 

She meowed in affront, then rushed to the side of someone who hadn’t just mortally offended her— even though Keith was the one responsible! Where was the culpability!

“Hey there.” Keith crouched down, letting Blue sniff his fist. “You don’t look like a face-eater to me.”

Lance froze. “How long have you been here?”

“I was going to say hi, but then you accused your cat of…” Keith’s face twisted. “Is there a word for eating people's faces?”

“Cannibalism?”

“No, that’s when people eat—” He shook his head. “You know what? I’m done talking about eating people.”  

“You were the one who brought it up!” Lance accused.

“No? You were talking about it with your cat.” Which, fair point. However, this was Lance’s farm, and he reserved the right to render any and all fair points null and void on the premises. 

“Which! You wouldn’t have heard if you weren’t lurking about, eavesdropping!”

“I wasn’t—” Keith sighed, sitting down on the porch.  _ Lance’s porch. _ “Look. Hunk said you were having trouble with the foundry. I’ve built them before, and it’s my day off. So.” He shrugged, as if that was the only explanation needed.

“And you don’t have anything better to do on your day off?” Lance asked, incredulous. He might not be able to picture Keith lounging around in pajamas and watching cheesy movies, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have his own form of me-time. Keith-time.

Another shrug. “Shiro didn’t need me to cover a shift on the shuttle, so… no.”

“Thanks, but I think I can handle—” Shoot. He was trying to be better about this. 

How dare past Lance make present Lance commit to being a better person and accepting help when he needed it. What an asshole. 

Besides,if Lance was being honest with himself, which was a fun, new craze he was trying out, there was a small— infinitesimal, really— part of him that was excited to maybe get to know Keith beyond the person he’d built up in his head. 

“I guess, if you really want to, you can help.”

“You sure know how to make a guy feel appreciated,” Keith said, and Lance took everything back. It turned out that Keith was exactly as bad as Lance had always thought, and everything was terrible forever. 

The work  _ did _ go faster once Keith arrived, and Lance remembered to drink water more often with the weight of Keith’s judgey looks on his back. So, at least there was that. 

It was kind of nice to know that their interactions not being completely terrible wasn’t just a one-time fluke. 

“Thanks,” Lance said, after a while. 

“For the blueprints, or for the help?”

Nevermind. Keith had never made anything easy in his entire life. He’d probably walked straight up to his kindergarten teacher and asked for multiplication tables.

“Both,” Lance admitted. Begrudgingly. “And also the slingshot.” Why were there so many things to thank Keith for? Couldn’t Keith do the respectable thing and act like a tool? Just once? 

“You can thank me by not passing out in the mines again,” Keith said, and no, him acting like a tool didn’t help as much as Lance thought it would, actually. It just made saying thank you even more of a trial. Who would have guessed.

“That was  _ one _ time,” Lance defended. 

“Most people don’t pass out at all.”

“Everyone passes out at least once! It’s, like, a rite of passage!” 

“It’s really not,” Keith said, like a liar. 

Lance squinted at him. “I’m calling bull. I  _ know  _ you passed out at the Garrison at least once.” 

“I didn’t say me,” Keith said. “I said most people.”

“I say hypocrite,” Lance fired back, crossing his arms. “Getting on my case when you’re just as bad.”

Strangely enough, their argument didn’t feel like an argument; there was no elastic stretched to its limits, no tension. There was just a rally back and forth, a ball served and returned. 

“I never claimed to be perfect,” Keith said, and the ball was back in Lance’s court.

“I understand. It’s hard to achieve,” Lance returned, grinning. Then, something bright red out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, reminding him of the task at hand. “Can you help me saw this fire extinguisher in half?”

“You should probably save that step for later,” Keith said, immediately serious, and they were back to work in no time. 

When they finally finished the foundry, the sun was sinking below the horizon, and Lance had sweat enough that wringing out his shirt would form a puddle. 

“I know you don’t want to hear this,” Keith said, which was always a great way to start a sentence, “but you don’t really have the tools to make anything more than ingots at this point.”

“I figured as much,” Lance said, sighing. He shrugged. “Well, good thing I happen to know where the local blacksmith’s set up.”

Keith snorted, and, holy crow, that would never stop being weird. “Oh? So you’re actually willing to accept his help now?”

“Uh, I sure hope I am? Or else that,” Lance pointed at the new foundry, then waggled his eyebrows, “just materialized there, and I have a new set of fake memories, and also, you’re a witch.”

Keith blinked at him. “Your head must be an interesting place.”

“Thank you,” Lance said, preening. He stretched. “While we’re talking about helping, by the way—”

“Are we? I got distracted by the witch accusation.”

“As I was  _ saying _ ,” Lance said, louder. He would not be silenced. “Now that I have a foundry, I can pay you back for your help with an ingot or two.”

“I don’t—” Keith’s mouth worked, his face twisting in confused frustration. “I didn’t want payment. I just wanted to help.”

“Alright,” Lance said, shrugging. “So, if I ‘just want to help’ by handing over an ingot, fair’s fair.” Keith didn’t have the monopoly on being considerate; Lance could play that game, too!

Keith rolled his eyes, but didn’t make any other sound of protest, which meant Lance won. Historians would mark this day.

“If it helps, I have ulterior motives,” Lance said. 

“You? Never.” If Keith was trying to be sarcastic, he was failing miserably. His delivery needed more variance in pitch— a little more pizzazz. They’d workshop it.

“I’m ignoring your only partially justified assassination of my character for the sake of our budding friendship and pretending that instead you said, ‘wow, Lance, what could you possibly want other than to repay me for my simple acts of kindness out of the goodness of your heart’.”

“My voice does  _ not  _ sound like that,” Keith protested.

“Details. Anyway, this gives me an excuse to consolidate all of the copper and iron ore I have hoarded from the Mine That Makes No Sense.” Lance made a face. “Seriously, what kind of composition spits out ore, topaz, amethyst, and quartz? It’s weird!”

“It’s magic, Lance; I don’t really think—” Keith cut himself off, the cogs of his mind visibly grinding to a stop. “Iron?”

“Uh, yeah?” Lance hadn’t misidentified the ore he’d found, right? He was pretty sure he knew what iron was. “Why?”

When Keith finally responded, his words were slow and careful. “How far down in the mines have you gotten?”

“Like sixty-five floors?” Lance hedged. He really hoped there wasn’t some kind of cryptid lurking around in there that he’d only barely avoided meeting, or something. The undead stuff was enough, thanks! 

Or, maybe going further in the mines was illegal past a certain point? Or closed to the public, at least. There could be structural damage, or— no, that didn’t make sense. If there was structural damage further down, the higher floors would be even more unsafe.

Wait, Keith was speaking. And probably giving the actual answer.

“Sorry, can you repeat that?”

Keith opened and closed his mouth, made several eloquent sounds, then settled on pointing his hands at Lance like knives. 

“I forgot my meds today, okay? Attention isn’t a thing that’s going well.”

“I— Alright. That’s fair.” Keith sighed. “I said, ‘Lance, what the fuck’.”

Oh.

“Oh.” Lance made a face. “Hey! What did I do to deserve that?”

“How are you sixty-five floors deep, already?”

“I don’t know! I try to do about five floors a day, when I don’t have anything else to do. It seemed like a good number to shoot for.” He looked around. “I mean, yeah, it was scary at first, but it’s kind of cool now. Last night I got a scroll written in Dwarvish, and that was wild. I’m gonna drop it off at the museum later.” Lance knew he was rambling worse than Hunk, but it was hard to stop. “Speaking of wild things, it’s kind of weird how every ten floors or so there are weird trunks full of stuff, right?”

He paused, then squinted at Keith. “Did you put them there?”

“Wh— Why would _ I  _ put them there?” Keith asked.

“You just helped me build a foundry, in the middle of summer, using blueprints you gave me, just because you were bored. Forgive me for assuming you just leave gifts around everywhere you go.”

“I’m not some kind of presents ninja, Lance!”

“Sure, that’s what you want me to think,” Lance said. 

“Why are you so—” Keith shook his head. “Okay, that isn’t the point. The point is that you have a slingshot—”

“Gifted to me by the presents ninja.”

“No.” Keith’s face pinched into exasperation. “You have a single, mediocre slingshot, and you’ve somehow made your way down to the sixty-fifth floor.”

“Okay, one, Europa is not mediocre,” Lance defended. He would not hear a word against his slingshot. “She is a beautiful partner and friend, and our shared victories outnumber the stars.” He held up two fingers. “And two, I’m still not seeing the point you’re making here. Is there, like, a secret river in the mines filled with poison that I should know about?”

“No, I just…” Keith pushed his hand through his hair, accidentally dislodging his hairband. He looked at in surprise, then refastened his ponytail. “Can you do me a favor and just let me know when you hit the seventy-fifth floor? That’s where I start looking for gold ore.”

Oh, so Keith was just jealous of how far Lance had gotten in one month. Everything made sense now. 

Finally, an opportunity for Lance to be the bigger person. 

“Sure,” he said, cooler than the freezer section of the grocery store. “I’ll keep you updated.” He paused an appropriate amount of time, counting out five seconds. “Any particular reason you need to know?”

Keith shrugged. “I’d feel better about it if I went down with you.”

Oh, this was even better than Lance imagined. Keith needed  _ Lance’s _ help to breeze through ore collection. This was truly the gift that kept giving. 

“Sure,” Lance said, “if it’ll make you feel better.”

“Thanks.” Keith shot him a bemused look, which made no sense, considering he was getting what he wanted.

Lance let it pass, though. Nothing was going to ruin his good mood.

 

* * *

 

Everything was terrible. 

Lance slid his pack off his shoulder, glancing around at the murky gloom of the community center’s boiler room. The stench of mold and rotting wood was overpowering. The junimos’ scrolls were the only things untouched by the surrounding decay. 

He crouched down in front of the scroll closest to the furnace, careful not to fall to the floor because, geeze,  _ gross. _ It sat there, expectant. A gaping maw, waiting for tribute.

Lance rummaged through his pack before extracting the needed materials, then sighed. 

He examined his single, solitary gold ingot with a final, longing gaze. The few ghosts he’d fought had dropped enough gold ore that he’d had enough to craft one ingot. An ingot that the junimos had demanded— okay, requested, but they knew Lance wouldn’t refuse, so this was basically bullying—  as soon as Lance told them he had a foundry. 

Ugh. He’d find more gold ore soon enough. He could afford to part with a single ingot.

Before he could change his mind, Lance wrapped it, along with two similarly sized bars of copper and iron, in the appropriate scroll. 

Like always, a junimo appeared as soon as he’d twisted off the ends. Like always, it stumbled a bit under the weight, then toddled off with the bundle.

Unlike always, a large, heavy object materialized a few inches off the ground and clattered down directly in front of Lance. 

Lance gaped. Sure, he was used to getting small things, like seeds, but nothing like this. He squinted into the darkness, groping for the object so he could determined what the heck the junimos just dropped on him. 

As soon as he recognized the shape of it in his hands, he started laughing helplessly. “You have  _ got _ to be kidding me. 

Of course. Of course the junimo had given him another freaking foundry. Why would Lance have expected anything else?

He took a moment to gather himself. The junimos were doing their best, probably. Besides, with two foundries, he could make two ingots at the same time. It wasn’t too bad a deal, all told.

The real problem was going to be getting the thing home. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone: demonstrates concern for Lance's wellbeing  
> Lance: Is this a Competition
> 
> Also, I first started outlining this fic before Lotor was even announced, and honestly, even if I started outlining it this very minute, I wouldn't change anything. Welcome to Space Walmart, You Anthropomorphic Cough Syrup. May your body be entombed in toilet paper pallets.


	12. Running on Shaky Ground is Better Than Free-Falling, No Matter What Cats May Think

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Family is Whoever Will Start Waterfights with You While You're Trying to Have A Serious Conversation

Lance woke up with an alarming lack of air in his lungs, offset by the excess of wailing in his ears. He felt like he’d been punched in the gut, and his bed was rattling under him. The transition from sleep to searing clarity was like being launched out of an airlock, and Lance was lurching out of his bed.

He had to get to the stabilizers before he did anything else, and then he could—

Lance stopped. His cottage did not have stabilizers. His cottage was not in space. Why, then, was his cottage shaking itself to bits like a terrified chihuahua?

It took a moment— too long, probably— for Lance to remember earthquakes were a thing that existed. It was official: he’d spent way too much time in space. How could he forget about _earthquakes?_ He grew up in Cárdenas, for Pete’s sake!

At the very least, he could relax a little. The cottage was a bit shaky, sure, but Gramps’ paintings weren’t rattling enough to fall off the walls, so it was probably fine. Lance wasn’t going to let it ruin his day, at least.

Blue, however, was another story.

She let out another wail, and right, first priority was comforting the cat, who had no frame of reference for why the world had gone to hell in a handbasket. Even if the pain in his stomach _was_ probably her fault— she must have launched herself off him when the earthquake started. If anything, that made comforting her even more imperative; she must have been scared out of her skull.

Unfortunately, it was hard to offer any kind of comfort while the house was still shaking; Blue was too concerned with forcing the world to make sense again by running around at the speed of light and screaming. Which! Lance could see the merit of, generally, but it made it really hard to communicate that things would be fine.

Fortunately, things settled soon enough, and Blue slowed from a cat-shaped blur into a physical shape that was capable of being soothed.

Lance pet her, whispering comforting nonsense at her even after she clambered into his lap. He yawned, and yeah, he was definitely going to fall asleep like that. He shook his head. Holding his position was definitely going to bite him in the butt, come morning. His backside already felt numb from being on the floor so long. Still, if it helped Blue feel safe, it was worth it.

Even if it _was_ going to give him muscle pain for the next two days.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes it really sucked to be right all the time.

Lance’s back was conspiring with his hamstrings to kill him, once and for all. His muscles felt like leftovers that had been tucked into a fridge and forgotten, only to be microwaved three weeks after even the most desperate college student would have thrown them out.

Existence was a burden.

“Sorry in advance if I die on your couch,” Lance offered, turning in Hunk’s general direction. Almost the second Lance had arrived, they’d disappeared into their kitchen. Which would normally be great, but Lance had come to ask about science stuff, not to beg for cookies. Also for sympathy. He could use some nice, warm Hunk sympathy.

“Anywhere but the couch, man; I just got that,” Hunk said, as merciless as Lance’s terrible body. Maybe they were in on the plot to kill him. Once Lance’s hamstrings had done the dirty work, Hunk could collect the insurance money.

Too bad for them: Lance didn’t have insurance. Take that, conspirators.

“Alright, lean up a bit,” Hunk instructed, pushing at Lance’s shoulders. Probably so they’d have easier access to his back. For stabbing purposes.

Lance grumbled, but did as he was asked, and then there was something warm being draped over his shoulder, and nevermind, Hunk was forgiven and also the best.

“How’s that, buddy?” Hunk asked, positioning the heating pad.

“You are a greater gift to me than rain is to the soil,” Lance said, “and I love you more than you love boolean whatevers.”

“Boolean circuits?”

“Yeah, those.” Lance waved a hand. “A little to the left?”

Hunk snorted, but did as asked. “I’ll be honest, I thought you’d sleep straight through the earthquake. I remember rooming with you. Zombies wake up easier.”

“I really hope you’re talking about hypothetical zombies here, and if you’re not, _please_ don’t tell me.” Lance paused. “Actually, tell me. Surprise ghosts are scary enough.”

“There aren’t zombies in the mine, I think,” Hunk said, which was the opposite of reassuring. “Unless you count the skeletons, and those don’t have, like, flesh. Which I think is the only difference?”

“I promise I don’t need a venn diagram for zombies versus skeletons, Hunk.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Hunk sniffed. “It’d be a diagram of morphological structures.”

“You’re not even a biologist,” Lance groaned. “Don’t do this to me. I’m an adult; I shouldn’t have to learn more things.”

“You graduated for the second time, like, not even a year ago.”

“Exactly.” Lance flopped forward, half splayed on the couch. “I’m done. No more academia. I had to learn about _seed genes,_ Hunk. Seed genes.” He wrinkled his nose. “That sounds like some kind of weird fashion company that only sells denim. Made from hemp.”

“I don’t think you can make denim from hemp.” Hunk pulled out their phone, then tapped at it for a bit.

“Hunk, I really don’t—”

“Oh, cool, it looks like you can, actually. Wild.” They pat Lance on the shoulder. “Let me know if Seed Jeans needs an investor; I’d be happy to look over your research and marketing proposals.”

“Not a chance, Hunk.”

“I got you, bud,” Hunk said, their voice falling into the conciliatory tone they only used when they were being a deliberately obtuse butthead. “You’d much rather discuss the details with Pidge instead, since you have similar specialties.”

“No!” Lance shot back up, wincing at the pull on his muscles. “No specialty discussion! In fact, no discussing science at all! Science is dying so that I may live, and if you don’t think I won’t die on this couch to prove a point, think again.”

“That’s weird,” Hunk said, cheery, “I thought the whole reason you came here was to discuss science, since I distinctly remember you saying, ‘I have a nerd question about earthquakes,’ the second you showed up. However, I can definitely keep all my cool earthquake fact to myself, if it’ll save your life.”

“You’re a demon,” Lance said. A demon with a legitimate point, but a demon nonetheless.

“Yep, yeah, sure am,” Hunk said, repositioning the heat pad. It had fallen when Lance started flopping around like a beached flounder, but Hunk, being perfect, had saved it before it hit the floor. “But yeah, earthquakes aren’t that common around here, but they do happen. At least they’re not too intense; I mostly sleep through them, honestly.”

“Couldn’t,” Lance said, yawning. “Blue woke me up.”

“Right, cat. Sore muscles.” Hunk said. “Kind of forgot that was an issue.” They ruffled Lance’s hair in sympathy.

“You forget my plight while I am dying— _dying,_ Hunk— in your living room? Really?”

“I would _never,”_ Hunk said, clasping their hand to their chest. “I would, maybe, if you were just kind of lying in my living room with sore muscles, though. But that’s not actually what I was talking about. I forgot animals don’t like earthquakes.”

Okay, that couldn’t possibly be right. “You have a cat?”

“Yeah,” Hunk agreed, arms crossed. “Yellow doesn’t react to earthquakes, like, at all. I think she gets better sleep than I do.” They walked over the counter where their cat was lounging, giving her a scritch under the chin. “Then again, I think she might just not realize the world hasn’t always been shaking.”

“Yeah, that scans,” Lance said. “I love Yellow, I really do, but she doesn’t know anything is happening. Like ever.”

When Hunk first introduced him to Yellow, back when they’d still shared an apartment, she’d spent six minutes rubbing against Lance before she realized he was a stranger, which meant it was very important that she skitter away as fast as possible. Then, once she’d finally gotten used to him, Lance made the fatal mistake of going into another room for too long. It turned out that an hour was just enough time for Yellow to completely forget who this strange man was, and the skittering began anew.  

At the very least, patient babysteps and literal years of reminding Yellow that she knew him had developed their starcrossed relationship enough that the cat was willing to cuddle with Lance. As long as he didn’t make any sudden movements. He’d call it a win.  

“Leave her alone,” Hunk protested. “She’s trying.”

“I know she is, and I appreciate her.” Lance rolled his neck. “Especially the part where she doesn’t react to earthquakes.”

“You don’t get to pretend like you didn’t dig your own grave, dude.” Hunk shook their head. “I get it, it’s your favorite thing to hold your spade behind your back, cover up the epigraph, and pretend you don’t know where this hole came from, but I’ve caught you climbing down into it too many times.”

 _“Hunk,”_ Lance groaned.

 _“Lance,”_ Hunk echoed. “I’m sorry to make you face reality like this, especially when you’re barely on speaking terms, but you’re a good person who loves your cat. Deal with it.”

“If you say so, buddy.” It sometimes hurt just how much Lance wanted to be the person Hunk thought he was. “If you say so.”

 

* * *

 

“Happy birthday!”

Plaxum grinned up at Lance, placing a fishing pole on the dock. It looked nice— nicer than his current one, anyway. For one, it looked like Lance could actually attach lures and cast out, rather than just baiting and waiting.

“Thanks, Plaxum,” Lance said automatically. “This’ll be really— Wait.” He frowned. “It’s not my birthday?” It’d take another two ‘years’ on this planet before enough Earth time had passed for that.

Plaxum gave him a bewildered look. “What do you mean?” She asked. “I gave you a present.”

“You sure did.” How was Lance supposed to even begin to respond to that? “And it’s really nice, Plaxum— really— but it won’t be my birthday for a while.”

“I don’t—” Plaxum huffed out a sigh, tapping her hands on the dock. “Sorry. I’m confused.” That made two of them.

“Did someone tell you it was my birthday?” Lance asked.

“No?” Plaxum looked, if anything, even more confused than she had previously, and this conversation was officially sitting at the corner of Nonsense Boulevard and Confusion Avenue. “I think I may have misinterpreted something.”

“Maybe?” Lance hedged, dragging out the word. Then, in a flash of clarity, he added, “Plaxum, what do you think birthdays are?”

“Occasions where you give gifts,” Plaxum answered, and oh. Oh, she’d just tripped over the age-old logic puzzle of squares-might-be-rectangles-but-not-all-rectangles-are-squares. But with birthdays. Alright. That was manageable.

“Okay, so. Birthdays.” Lance clapped his hands together, leaning forward. “Generally, humans celebrate getting older by remembering the day we were born. It’s like an anniversary, but for being alive. That’s a birthday,” Lance explained. “We don’t just say ‘Happy Birthday’ every time we get each other gifts.”

Plaxum stared blankly at him for a moment. “So it’s a progression of time thing? Like, ‘congrats on being alive; here’s a present’?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Huh.” Plaxum cocked her head. “Alright.” She nodded to herself, as if coming to terms with the idea, then pushed the fishing pole towards him. “Well, congrats on being alive. Have a present.”

Well, no one could say Lance hadn’t tried his best. Wasn’t much else he could do when it came to interacting with semi-reclusive scientist aliens who had a purely theoretical knowledge of human interaction. He barely had a handle on interactions with his human scientist friends.

“Thanks, Plaxum.” Lance stretched out his hand, then faltered. This was usually the bit where he’d reach out and ruffle his siblings’ hair— the sincere gratitude had to be offset by just enough nonchalant prodding, lest the natural order of the universe fall into disrepair— but Plaxum didn’t exactly have the fluffiest head in the universe. It was the opposite, really. Very… Shark-y. Not ruffle friendly at all.

Luckily, Plaxum seemed to be even more proficient with the sibling code than Lance was.

“You can thank me by fishing over here more often; now that you have a proper setup for ocean fishing, you don’t have an excuse.” Plaxum grinned at him. “I can’t be expected to take on our overpopulated beach all by myself. I’m a busy gal.”

“I’m busy too, y’know!” Lance complained. Was he going to take the pole and go fishing at the first opportunity anyway? Probably. But Plaxum didn’t need to know that.

“Oh yeah, absolutely,” Plaxum agreed. “At the _beginning_ of summer, when you’re just waiting for harvesting and canning season to begin, right?”

“I _could_ be busy.” Lance would hold to his ground with the stubborn determination of a cat claiming a chair; not fire nor flood could move him.

“And I _could_ still be researching the Baku garden back in the Citadel, so long as we’re discussing hypotheticals with no bearing in reality, anyway. Either way, we wouldn’t be talking right now, and that is clearly not the case.” Plaxum flicked her tail, sending water in an arc that hung in the air, glittering, before smacking down into Lance and soaking him to the bone.

 _“Plaxum,_ this is cotton!” Lance frowned down at his shirt, and was definitely not tempted to try sucking the water out because he wasn’t twelve anymore. “It’s gonna take forever to dry.”

“They make shirts out of hydrophobic material, you know,” Plaxum said, and really, would it kill her to show some sympathy? Lance could die from… Something, probably. He could have made a terrible decision and actually sucked the saltwater out, and then he’d faint from dehydration. And drown. Plaxum could have killed him.

“Yeah, but it’s hot out, and that stuff doesn’t breath, like, at all.”

Plaxum hummed, low and thoughtful. “Noted.” She traced something on the dock, then nodded. “Alright.”

“Alright?” Lance prodded.

She smiled and didn’t elaborate because all of Lance’s friends were weirdos, apparently. But whatever. Lance could take a hint: it was time for a subject change.

“So,” he started, leaning forward. “How’d you end up over here, anyway? If you were researching at the Citadel, that’s, like…” Lance made a motion like he was lobbing a football into the horizon, far across the sea.

“Yeah,” Plaxum said, making a complicated expression. The softness of her wistful expression was hardened by angrier lines. Where Lance would have locked his jaw, it looked like she was unhooking hers— the slackness showing off rows of teeth.

“You could say this is something of a passion project, but also…” Plaxum shook her head. “I was asked to leave my previous position. I had concerns about the ethics of utilizing some of the research we’d produced, and well…” Her laugh sounded hollow. “No one likes it when you say their work might be best used by _not_ using it, y’know?”

Lance winced. Bioethics were always a wild time; he’d seen the fallout of his former employer’s policies firsthand. Trademarking genetic code to drive up the price of medicine and food had consequences, it turned out. “Yeah. I get what you mean.”

Plaxum peered up at him, then appeared to relax. “You do, huh? Geeze.” She flopped backwards, sending a spray of water up and— thankfully— away from Lance. “It’s not that I hate my job here or anything; I like preparing data, and I like that the team can use my data to lobby for environmental protections. I just wish that saying, ‘hey, this plant could be used as a biological weapon, so maybe we should be careful,’ or, ‘this part of it could be really beneficial in medication, so maybe we should make this portion of our research public domain,’ didn’t end with me getting kicked to the curb, y’know?”

Holy crow, that sucked.

“Holy crow, that sucks,” Lance said. There wasn’t much else he could say. “I’m sorry, Plaxum.”

“Eh, y’know. Capitalism.” Plaxum made a face. “Should have known better than to have morals, I guess.”

She laughed at the look at Lance’s face. “I’m joking.” She shook her head. “Settle down; I work for an environmental protections group for Pete’s sake.”

“Listen,” Lance said, holding up a hand. “Do I know you better than that? Yes. Did I spend years surrounded by people who thought the way to hold back the oncoming tide of Galra Corp. stealing their souls was to set what little they had left on fire before their bosses could get to it? _Also_ yes. Some instincts hit faster than others.”

“That’s fair,” Plaxum conceded. “But trust me, I wouldn’t go back there for anything.” She made a face. “I do miss my family, though. Most of them still live around the Citadel.” Quiznak if that wasn’t relatable. Lance ached with homesickness some nights, an empty, yawning thing that clawed at his insides.

“You said your sister is going to visit sometime soon though, right?” Lance prompted, reaching out for a torch in the darkness.

“Yeah!” Plaxum’s eyes lit up, like a match had been struck inside her. “She’s coming up for the Dance of The Moonlight Jellies.”

“Oh, yeah,” Lance said. He whistled, thinking about it. That festival was a weird one, but beautiful; the mayor would send out a boat, lit by a lantern, and it would draw in hundreds of glowing jellyfish. They illuminated the dark waters in irregular patterns, like a second night sky. “That’s always a really good one to celebrate with your family.”

Missing Gramps came with the same stumbling finality of expecting there to be one more step in a staircase than there was— one second Lance was fine, thinking about the festival, and the next, he was thinking about the way Gramps had lifted him onto his shoulders, assuring him that the rare green jelly was sure to appear, just for Lance.

The thought of standing on the dock alone and watching as the glowing jellies rolled in was suddenly unbearable. How was Lance supposed to go to the festival alone? Without Gramps? Without anyone? Sure, he could hang out with Hunk, but that would be almost more painful— too close to how things used to be.

“—f course, it’ll be hard with the bridge broken, but I really do think she’d love to meet you.”

“Sorry,” Lance said. “Can you repeat that? I was kinda…” He made a gesture that was half salute, half helicopter-hand in order to communicate exactly how far in the atmosphere he’d been.

“I said that Florona and I usually watch from that cove to the east, since it has all of those tidepools, but the bridge over there has been broken recently, so we might have to change things up a bit.”

“Why would— You don’t have feet?” Lance opened and closed his mouth, trying to work out a reasonable response to an unreasonable problem. “Why would you need a bridge?”

“So you can come and visit us, you weirdo.” If Plaxum could roll her eyes, she would be unstoppable. The intent behind her expression was already so palpable that Lance could feel her exasperation like a knife against his throat. Or, like a hand ruffling his hair with weary fondness. Same difference.

“Oh, you—” Lance was at a loss. “You want me to hang out with you two?”

“That is what I just said, yeah.”

“I wouldn’t want to interrupt sibling bonding time, though.” That was sacred ground.

“If I have not already made it clear that you’re basically like my really weird adoptive alien brother at this point,” Plaxum said, voice way dryer than a mermaid should have been able to manage, “here’s your official notice. Besides, I’m making this offer with the expectation that you can be a reasonable person and read the atmosphere enough to judge whether Florona and I need sister time.”

“You’ve only known me for a few weeks!” Lance said, throwing his hands up. “Like! I’m really, really happy, but I have no clue what’s happening!”

“What can I say?” Plaxum asked, shrugging. “I make snap decisions. Unfortunately, you’re adopted. Welcome to the family.”

“Was throwing a fish at me some weird ritual? Is that what this is?”

Plaxum nodded solemnly. “Yes, Lance, you’re now bound to— no, it’s not some ritual! What are you even _talking_ about?”

“I don’t know! This just seems to be moving really fast!”

“High tide hits before you know it,” Plaxum said, “and only fools bicker about which wave struck first.” She grinned. “Basically, don’t worry about it. We have enough to argue over already, since the cove isn’t an option; we need to figure out where we’re going to meet up.”

“Are we sure the cove isn’t an option?” Lance asked, distracted despite himself.

“Uh, yeah?” Plaxum cocked her head. “I told you, the bridge is basically rotted through.” She sighed. “It’s a shame, honestly. Not just for me, I mean. The kids really love looking for shells over by the tidepools.”

“What are the dimensions of the bridge?” Lance asked, pulling up the calculator app on his phone. He _had_ been saving lumber to fix up the bridges around the farm; this couldn’t be that different.

“About seventy-three aquamet—” Plaxum stopped, then wrinkled her nose. “Five _meters_ long, one and a half meters wide. Why?”

“Yeah, that’ll work,” Lance said, tapping out a quick message to Hunk. He’d have to run back to his cottage to grab his tape measure and take more accurate measurements, of course, but the guesstimation told him this was definitely doable.

 _“Lance,”_ Plaxum prodded. “What are you up to?”

“I,” Lance started, “think I want to check out this cove I keep hearing about.” And if he happened to make a few kids and two mermaids with a habit of forcibly adopting people happy in the process, well, that was just statistics. Actions had consequences.

Plaxum stared at him for a long moment, then laughed. It was loud, genuine, and pleased, and that was one of the best consequences Lance could ask for.

 

* * *

 

Lance was poring over a spreadsheet of the week’s earnings when Coran burst through his cottage door.

“How would you like to unlock the secrets of the universe, my boy?” Coran asked, elbows akimbo and fists planted on his hips.

Lance looked between him and the spreadsheet. Either option was going to use up all of his energy for the day, probably. On one hand, he really did need to input the amount he’d earned from selling all those spice berries the other day. On the other, data entry was probably handcrafted as some form of torture.

Better to go with the option that didn’t spam Lance with error messages when he screwed up a formula.

“What’s up, Coran?”

“No small percentage of nitrogen, I’d say!” Coran plucked at his mustache. “But, such is atmospheric composition. It does make a fellow long for fiercer climes every once in a while, but we do well enough with what we have.”

“Uh huh,” Lance said. Nodding made the weirder parts of conversations with Coran pass by faster. “So, what was that about the secrets of the universe?”

“Ah, yes!” Coran clapped his hands together. “How would you like to learn a little alchemy?”

Well, of all the things Lance wasn’t expecting to hear today, that certainly took the cake. Heck, it practically packed up the entire bakery and fled in the middle of the night.

“Okay, back up. You mean, like, rags to riches, lead to gold alchemy?”

“Oh, not at all!” Coran said, bright and clear as a summer day. “More like copper to iron. Any alchemy involving the transmutation of gold is heavily regulated, considering the local currency. It is a _bit_ strange, since there’s no way to forge the crest anyway, but what can you do? Politics.” He tutted, shaking his head.

“So you’re going to teach me how to turn copper into iron?” Lance asked, tentative.

“Right you are!”

A grin split Lance’s face, and he whistled. “Alright! Sign me up for magic school!” With more iron, he could make more iron ingots, and he could weasel some upgrades for his tools out of Keith.

“Oh, it won’t quite be that formal,” Coran said, and, right, they were having a conversation. “And ‘magic’ is a very misleading term— it’s more like science, but with a kick! All you need is a theoretical understanding of where to place molecules, and then enough energy to move them around.”

Lance paused. “Wait, what?” His face crumpled like paper. “That would require a buttload of energy— not to mention how much energy it’d produce. It’d be like a nuclear explosion.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Coran said, beaming. “You’re a quick study! Not to worry, though.”

 _“Uhhhhhhh!”_ The way Lance’s voice rose and fell would give some roller coasters a run for their money. “I think, maybe, there’s a bit to worry about here!”

“Here, not at all,” Coran said. “We simply have to move the excess energy into an unoccupied pocket dimension where it can be held in stasis until it needs to be used again. It’s quite convenient, especially when one needs energy to catalyze future reactions,” he continued, as if his words would suddenly start making sense if he just said enough of them. Yeah, no. Lance would take a hard pass on potential cross-reality nuclear explosions, thanks.

“As much… fun? As that sounds, I really think I should leave that to the experts. Like you!”

Coran frowned. “That’s no way to react to new experiences!” He insisted. “You’re much more capable than you imagine.”

“I’m really glad you trust me so much— I really am— but, listen, there’s no way this can end well. Trust me, Coran. I feel it in my bones.”

“Nonsense,” Coran said, placing his hands on his hips. “Bones can be broken.”

“I don’t— No? No! That’s so scary?” Lance gaped at him. “You can’t just— You can’t just _say_ these things to people!”

“Whyever not?” Coran blinked at him with the wide-eyed confusion of a customer being told that their coupon had expired a month prior.

“Because it’s terrifying! Like, you get why that’s terrifying right?” Lance raised his hands in the air, trying to impress upon him just how banana bread this was.

“Not quite sure I do, but I’ll take your word for it.” Coran bowed, sweeping back his cape. “Terribly sorry for alarming you.”

“Cool, thanks, you’re forgiven, _don’t threaten my bones again.”_

“I wasn’t threatening you!” Coran defended. “I was attempting to supply comfort! Not everything is set in stone. Or, well, bone, as it were.”

“I guess I can kinda understand that,” Lance conceded, “but still. I’m not exactly comfortable with anything that generates enough energy that it needs to chill out in another dimension for a bit.” It wasn’t exactly on the same scale of some jello he could leave to sit in the freezer!

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Coran said, waving a hand. “I wouldn’t dream of pushing you into such a thing unprepared. No, no.” He clapped his hands together. “Before that, you’ll need to study! Quite a bit, too, I’d say!”

Oh no.

Lance should have just let Hunk talk science to him. This was the universe’s way of spiting him— a boulder careening back into his face the second he thought he’d finally hauled it to the peak of the mountain. This was the hill he had chosen to die on, and it was out for blood.

Better to put an end to this before it could take on a life of its own.

Lance opened his mouth to end the conversation once and for all, but when he looked up, it was straight into expectant eyes and a hopeful grin. Refusing him felt like refusing to go fishing with his uncle, or telling his nephews they couldn’t play with his old action figures— the feeling of the words on his tongue felt heavy and sour.

Ugh. What could a little extra study hurt, anyway? Lance did kind of owe him one. Even if Coran did make him drink compost.

“Alright. What do I need to do?”

“Magnificent!” Coran bounced on his heels in excitement. “If you’re at all free, I would appreciate you spending a few hours at my tower on Tuesday evenings. I can adapt my lesson plan to your pace, so don’t worry about meeting any sort of quota. All I ask is for your best effort.”

Lance sighed. “Yeah,” he said, smiling in resignation. “I think I can swing that.”

 

* * *

 

Lance was about to tumble into bed for the night when he felt his phone vibrate. He took a moment to stare with unbridled longing at his pillow, then sighed, ripping his gaze from its beguiling fluff. This late at night, either something terrible had happened, Hunk had insomnia and needed someone to talk to, or a promotional email from a store he’d signed onto a mailing list for in a moment of weakness had popped into his inbox. Only two of those were worth checking on, but they far outweighed the risk of the third.

The good money would be on Hunk sending sleep-deprived texts, usually. Usually. It was more than a little bit surprising, then, when the answer was ‘none of the above’.

 **(23:46)** _hey, so_  
**(23:46)** _how much charcoal do you have?_  
  
Lance blinked down at the texts, but they refused to make any more sense. Did someone get the wrong number or something? Maybe they’d meant to contact their usual... charcoal supplier?

Yeah, Lance had nothing.

 **(23:47)** _this is keith_

Okay! Cool! This was Keith! Cool, so that was one mystery solved, which left the question of _why?_ Why was he texting Lance about _charcoal?_ Why was he texting Lance about charcoal _at midnight?_ Why did he even have Lance’s num— wait, no, that one was on Lance. Lance gave him his number.

Lance stared down at his phone. Maybe if he just looked at it long enough, he’d be able to unravel some secret message encoded in the texts, and wait he’d promised Plaxum he’d try to be better about this stuff.

Ugh. Time to be an adult.

 **(23:49)** do you??? need charcoal???

A typing bubble popped up, chugging away for a frankly unreasonable amount of time. Lance was on the edge of his seat, waiting for whatever possible justification Keith might have for his weird midnight texts.

 **(23:50)** _no_

Okay, seriously, _what was Keith’s deal?_

 **(23:50)** ???????????????????

 **(23:50)** _i have blueprints for a charcoal kiln_  
**(23:51)** _if you’re running low on charcoal_  
  
So, Lance officially didn’t, had never, and would never understand Keith Kogane. Ever. What the heck was going on?

 **(23:51)** are you asking me if i want a charcoal kiln??

 **(23:51)** _uh, not really  
_**(23:51)** _or, kind of_

What was the point of this conversation then? What could possibly be going on in the enigmatic machinations of Keith’s brain? Sure, Lance had told Plaxum he’d stop trying to conspiracy board Keith’s weirdness, but this was something-freaking-else.  
  
**(23:52)** _would you want to try building a charcoal kiln?_

Oh. So that was it. Well. That was a bit anticlimactic.

 **(23:52)** i think u might actually be like a sentient DIY video  
 **(23:52)** like u made a pact with a demon to gain physical form and the tradeoff is that u have to constantly trick people into making things with u and siphon off their energy

 **(23:53)** _you could just say no_

 **(23:53)** what and leave u to die at the hands of ur demon pal??  
**(23:53)** i think not  
**(23:53)** so yeah  
**(23:54)** im down for kiln construction if you are, man

Once again, Keith took a century and a half to respond. The typing bubble was almost hypnotic— an eternal companion, as constant as the night sky. Lance wasn’t even surprised at the curt response, when it came.

 **(23:55)** _cool_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I started this fic over a year ago, I feel like it's only right to finally link to some pictures of Lance's farm
> 
> I made a reference file on Stardew for inspiration, as well as to try and get events in the right order-- [this folder](https://drive.google.com/open?id=1_kVpKr3BnWm9DwlHDr2EiTg-I9fYp6_s) will be updated alongside the fic; it currently has pictures up through summer, since that's where we are, fic-wise
> 
> That said, here's a glimpse into the writing process:  
> 


	13. Emotions Can Be Stewed, Simmered, or Enjoyed Raw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friendship is Like a Potluck: Everyone Brings What They Can to The Table

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!! Guess who's hyped about Shiro's canon fiancé!! It's me!! Guess who's also hyped about their mixed heritage Samoan-Filipino Hunk headcanons being validated!! Also me!! I'm alive!!
> 
> Adam's not showing up in the fic for a bit b/c I know nothing about his personality yet but you can bet on him showing up once i have episode transcripts to study and extrapolate dialogic habits from. I'm thriving. Canon LGBT rep!!!!!

The annual potluck was, no contest, the best festival the town had on offer. Five uninterrupted hours of free food on the beach, and most of it— aside from its crowdsourced centerpiece— delicious by default. Was small town judgement a cruel and vindictive god? Yeah, absolutely. However, it was a god that demanded warm, tasty tribute, and no one would dare bring anything less than their best to the table. 

Too bad Lance didn’t have a kitchen. 

“I’m going to be executed,” Lance intoned, phone smushed against his face as he peered into his cooler’s depths— or, more accurately, its shallows. Surely everyone would love to be subjected to Lance’s cache of condiments and a packet of lunch meat. 

Lance grimaced. Did he really not have anything? Heck, he’d even settle for bringing snacks.

“No one’s gonna execute you for not bringing something, Lance,” Hunk said, voice tinny, like they were using speakerphone. They probably were; knowing Hunk, their hands were busy crafting something time-consuming and delicious. “We live in a food desert. People understand when you can’t bring stuff.” 

“This is a small town, Hunk,” Lance said, face screwing up. “Sure, people will ‘understand’, but they won’t  _ forget.” _

“If it’s bugging you that much, I have some plantains up here. Just swing by sometime this afternoon and fry up some tostones.” 

Lance’s stomach grumbled without his input. “I  _ wish, _ buddy. They go off if you cook ‘em that long beforehand, and I’m not gonna clank around in your kitchen at six in the morning.” He sighed. “Ugh, now I want tostones. This sucks. They live in my brain now. Mocking me. Deliciously.”

“Sorry, bud.” Hunk made a sympathetic noise. “Well, even if you can’t make ‘em for the potluck, you know you can just come over and make them for yourself, like, anytime you want, right? Or any time I have the stuff to make them lying around, anyway.”

“Have I mentioned how much I love you recently?” Lance asked, reverent. 

“Yeah, but it’s still nice to hear,” Hunk said. “So, plan B.” They hummed, low and long. “Well... Like I said before, we’re a food desert. You’re literally our only option for produce— other than Galra Mart, anyway. So, why not carry some vegetables over and toss them into the stew tomorrow?”

“You know not of what you speak,” Lance intoned, trying to make his voice as deep and ominous as possible, then choking on his own spit.

The Stew deserved to be capitalized, all told. It was the metric by which each year’s potluck was judged, and it was surrounded in superstition. Anyone who brought an ingredient for The Stew was duty bound to toss it in, no matter what was already floating around in it. It was supposed to symbolize the strength of the community, or something; if everyone was bringing their best to the table, then the stew would turn out alright, supposedly. In reality, it was a matter of luck. 

Well, luck and chaperoning. Lance remembered visiting Gramps the year someone dumped a load of salted anchovies into the pot on a dare.

It was no accident that the first person to try The Stew each year was from out of town. The tradition of letting the governor have first dibs wasn’t so much out of a spirit of altruism and unity, so much as it was a matter of all the locals knowing better. 

“Hunk. Buddy. Light of my life. If I ruin The Stew, Allura’s gonna put me in jail.” 

“She will not,” Hunk said. “I mean, she didn’t put Matt in jail, even after the cottage cheese thing, so you’d definitely be fine. Probably.” There was a pause. “You have, like, any  _ really mild _ ingredients lying around? Like cauliflower! Do you still have cauliflower?”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Lance sighed. “And no. I had some saved, but then everyone and their mother needed some for dinner. You’d think I run a mail order food service instead of a farm.”

Something like a chuckle made its way over the line. “You know, you could have avoided this. You just had to say that you don’t do home deliveries.”   

“I’m not making people wait to eat for no good reason, Hunk.” They’d have to wait for their veggies until Holtover’s rotated its stock, and it was impossible to say no to someone when their kid was rambling about how great his Mom’s food was. The kid basically deserved a medal for liking his veggies at that age— a cauliflower was the least Lance could do. “Who am I to keep the people from their curry?” Especially if he had the only ingredient they were missing.

“Mmm, curry,” Hunk replied. Eloquent. “I know The Stew’s enough for anyone, but I kind of wish we could bring some more variety into the hot liquids department.”

“Sure, Hunk, let’s have a lot of hot, heavy meals on the beach in the middle of summer, just before everyone goes out to play in the ocean,” Lance drawled.

“Okay, fair,” Hunk admitted, sighing. “But I was thinking of, like, sinigang. Lighter stuff. Not anything cream based. Though, I guess even that would be a bit much? But also, we’re already serving mystery stew, so the ship’s probably sailed on complaining about hot food at a beach party.”

_ “Hunk,”  _ Lance whined. “I love you, but stop saying food at me. Especially food I haven’t had in forever.” Lance’s stomach growled at him in agreement. The backup was appreciated. “I haven’t had sinigang since last time I visited my brother.”

“Which one?” 

“Luis. His husband’s been teaching him how to cook, which, for some reason, is going way better than any time the rest of us have tried.” Lance rolled his eyes. 

“Well, it’s Angel,” Hunk said, as if that explained everything. Although, it kind of did. Luis’s husband was sort of terrifying. Really nice and cool, but terrifying. He could teach anything to anyone. Which, okay, probably came with being a teacher, except most of Lance’s teachers had sucked. So.

It was probably safer to say that Angel was just magical, full stop, and used the same pocket dimension power transfer nonsense Coran did. There was no other explanation for him being able to teach Luis— Luis, who’d somehow started a fire while making  _ hot chocolate _ at the age of  _ seventeen— _ how to cook. 

“I still say he stole Tita’s sinigang recipe somehow.” Hunk said. “Like, sure, they’ve never met— or so he says — and he may have tried to fool me by giving me a different one, but I know what I tasted, and there is absolutely no way he substituted spinach for kangkong in that. Trying to throw me off the scent.” Hunk paused, then snorted. “Or, taste, I guess?”

Lance rolled his eyes. “Big words, buddy. Angel loves you too much for that, which, hello,  _ I’m _ supposed to be the in-law, here! But has he ever shared a recipe with me? No.”

“He and Luis need to have  _ something _ they can use to bribe you into visiting. Besides, when’s the last time you cooked something?” Hunk didn’t give Lance time to respond. “Other than fish in tinfoil.”

“Okay, first of all, as if I need a bribe to visit my family! They’re the best.” The latter bit was true, at least. Lance loved his family more than life itself, even if they did call up Hunk to gossip about him. And he did miss them! It had just been… hard, for the past few years, to go back. He wasn’t sure what would be worse: his family being disappointed in him, or not reacting at all. 

Lance had a hard enough time lifting his own expectations out of the dirt without looking back to see how deep in the hole his family’s had fallen. 

“Okay, noted. Doesn’t answer the cooking question though,” Hunk said, and right, Lance had a second point, didn’t he?

“I don’t have a kitchen, Hunk! Tinfoil fish is all I  _ can _ cook right now.”

“Okay, I absolutely need to teach you how to cook some stuff outdoors soon,” Hunk said. “I don’t even want to imagine what kind of deficiencies you’re working with right now.”

“Any chance of you teaching me in the next…” Lance pulled his phone away from his head to squint at the time. “You’re faster at math than me. How many hours are between three and— eighteen! Any chance of you teaching me in the next eighteen hours?”

“Stop stressing about this, Lance,” which, ha! Wasn’t that a trip coming from Hunk’s mouth. Talk about a role reversal. “Just bring a mild fish, or something. Do you have any tilapia? That’d fade into The Stew easily enough.”

Lance pursed his lips. “I think I have some sturgeon in the ice chest.” 

“There you go!” Hunk made a low, pleased sound. “Sturgeon’s a white fish, and since you and Plaxum caught it fresh, the flavor should be pretty mild. Just prepare it to toss into The Stew tomorrow, and you should be golden.” 

Lance let out a sigh of relief. “Hunk, you’re a lifesaver.”

“You’re the one who caught the fish, buddy. I’m just here to help you throw spaghetti at the wall.”

“Well, you’re a champion at spaghetti-toss.” 

“I’ll take it,” Hunk said, their smile almost audible. “Okay, not that I don’t love talking to you, but I really have to pay attention to this bit of the recipe if I want it to turn out right, and you have a fish to prepare.” 

“Roger,” Lance said. “See you tomorrow.”

“See ya, Lance.”

With that conversation ended, there was really nothing else for Lance to do but get up to his elbows in fish guts. Fun times. But whatever, it’d be worth it. 

Hopefully.

 

* * *

 

There was no chance of Lance getting lost on the way to this festival. Even if he had somehow forgotten the way to the beach, the thumping of the music could be heard from halfway across town. Which, okay, wasn’t that hard, considering the town was smaller than some college campuses, but still. 

The beach was full of people milling about, their voices raised over the boom of the music and the crash of waves, and oh. Oh.

Nostalgia was a sudden vice, squeezing the air out of Lance’s lungs and bringing him up short. The Varadero in his mind mixed with the beach spread out before him, Veronica and her kids rushing into the ocean, Gramps’ voice calling out warnings about the riptide, Luis tossing a smart remark out and earning a laugh from Marco. 

His stomach roiled, rebelling at the gap between his memories and the scene before him. His family wasn’t here.

“Lance! You made it!” Hunk’s voice rang out from further down the beach, carrying over the music easily.

And right.  _ Right. _ How could Lance have forgotten? His biological family wasn’t here, sure, but that wasn’t all he had. 

Sure, it’d be nice if his whole family could be here, but, well. He had what he had, and it turned out pretty great anyway. Even if he didn’t have the kitchen he wanted, he had the sturgeon in the ice chest. 

Lance managed to slap on a smile as Hunk approached. “Hunk! I made it!”

“Good timing, too.” Hunk grinned for a moment before sobering. “So!” They pointed with their hands, palms flat. “As your friend who loves you, I absolutely should not be enabling terrible habits that you’re in the process of working past, but, like, as a person with a rich inner life who sometimes makes bad decisions, I’m allowed to make mistakes here, and I maybe, possibly, wanna use my mistake mileage for the entire year today, right now.” 

“Oh no?” Lance blinked at them, alarmed. 

Hunk nodded, solemn. “Oh no.”

Yeah. There was no way this was gonna end well. 

“Count me in, buddy. What do you need?”

“I need you to spy on Keith for me.”

What.

“What.”

“Okay, listen,” Hunk started, their voice pitching in a tone that didn’t so much invite Lance to listen as it did slam down the door, tie him to a chair, and start up a slideshow. “Keith has put a mystery ingredient into The Stew for the past five years— that’s like  _ twenty _ Earth months, Lance— and he refuses to tell me what it is! And with anything else, that wouldn’t be a problem, but this is The Stew. You know how good my tastebuds are! I can tell you how much cardamom someone used in a dish down to the gram, but  _ The Stew!”  _

Realization dawned on Lance. “All those ingredients, huh?” 

“Exactly!” Hunk huffed out a breath. “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t think he’s poisoning it. Whatever he puts in works. The Stew’s turned out fine, so far.”

Oh great. So if the sturgeon didn’t work out, Lance would be ruining a five year streak, even with Keith’s mystery ingredient.

“Wait, so if it tastes fine, why are you wigging out about it?”

“Professional curiosity,” Hunk answered immediately. “Or hobbyist curiosity? Since I’m not a professional chef. Also spite. He’s my friend, and he won’t tell me, and it’s been five years.”

Well, who was Lance to get in between a friend and petty vindication?

“So, what, you just want me to follow Keith around until he drops something in The Stew?”

“A little late for that.” Oh good. The absolute worst person to have overheard their conversation. “I already dumped it in,” Keith’s voice continued. 

Hunk made a sound that was half denial and half deflating tire, their “No” hissing out into a long, sustained note of defeat. 

Keith walked over to Hunk, a brighter smile on his face than Lance had ever seen, and patted them on the shoulder. “Better luck next year.” 

“You want to ruin me,” Hunk said. 

“Nah.” Keith’s smile was still there, soft and indulgent. Lance hadn’t realized he could make that face. 

“I can’t believe you were going to sell me out,” Keith said, and oh, heck, he was talking to Lance. “I helped you build a kiln!”

“And a foundry,” Lance added on, and why did he do that? Why did he make things harder on himself?

“And a foundry!” 

Hunk shook their head. “Sorry Keith. I have first friendship dibs. Plus, Lance still owes me from the time he—”

“Hey, wow, is that Shay? Your life partner? Who probably misses your company right now?” Lance may not have been able to predict which embarrassing story Hunk was about to load into the cannon, but he could sure as heck prevent them from lighting the fuse. 

“Nah, she’s fine. Shay tries to spend as much time with her brother as she can on festival days,” Hunk said. “Their schedules don’t line up a lot, since Rax is pretty much always busy with the ranch, and Shay’s data is time-sensitive.” 

“Oh,” Lance said. There went his out. 

“Also, you were pointing at Slav,” Keith said, cocking his head. 

“Who’s Slav?” Lance hadn’t heard that name before. Or, he didn’t think he had, at least.

“Point again, and you’ll see someone who looks nothing like Shay. That’s Slav.”

Lance looked over, and, ah, yes, that was the person who looked like an elongated penguin with eight arms. They could have, maybe, hypothetically passed for Shay. If Lance were a bit further away, and looked from a certain angle. And closed one eye. And unfocused the other. Maybe. 

“Okay, fair point,” Lance admitted. 

Hunk looked at him, amused, expression all benevolence and sunshine, which meant Lance was about to die. 

“So, like I was saying—” 

“Pointing is very rude, you know,” a new voice chimed in, and oh, holy crow there was a fuzzy face in Lance’s face. Okay! That was a thing that was happening now! Alright!

“Um!” 

“Although there is a far higher probability that you were pointing at me as some sort of social function, rather than in an attempt to single out the individual you plan to poison, it is just as likely that you were attempting to mock me as it is that you were complimenting my outfit,” Slav rattled off, drawing back enough that Lance could breathe again. “And though it is a very nice outfit, it doesn’t need pointing at.”

“Slav,” Keith started, then stopped. Which, thanks. Helpful. Although, it wasn’t like Lance could muster up much of a response either.

“In any case,” Slav continued. “Your intent needs clarifying.” 

“None of the above, Slav,” Hunk answered, which was lucky, since Lance was still processing whatever the heck was happening. “Lance was pointing around in general, not at a specific person. He just wanted to change the subject.”

Slav turned, squinting at Hunk, then nodded. “Ah! Point zero zero three percent, then! Interesting.” He looked Lance over again, then patted his shoulder. “Asking is better!” He pronounced. Then, he wandered off, back in the direction he came from. 

“Proud of him,” Hunk said, smiling after him. 

“Okay, cool, great,  _ what was that? _ What just happened!?” Lance asked Hunk, throwing his hand into the air. 

Without even a by-your-leave, or a warning, or something, Keith started to laugh, long and hard. He clutched a hand to his stomach, bracing himself against Hunk, who looked helplessly at Lance. 

“That was Slav?” Hunk hedged, as if that gave Lance any further context at all. “You get used to him. We work together sometimes.” 

“Since— Since when? Has he been hiding in the  _ vents?” _

Keith started laughing even harder, and Lance tried to focus on his righteous indignation and confusion, rather than the novelty of Keith fighting for air through laughter. 

“We’ve been working together for a while! He solves equations faster than you can imagine, and his physics experiments are literally transdimensional. It’s scary impressive.” Hunk nods in the direction Slav left. “He has some neurodivergence overlap with me, so we’ve been working on healthy coping mechanisms and stuff. Better to ask people for answers if they have them, rather than obsess over what-ifs, y’know?” Hunk winced. “We might want to work on the execution, though.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Lance replied, rolling his eyes. “But, okay. I get what you mean.” 

One day—  _ one day _ — Lance would run into a problem that couldn’t be solved with honest and open communication. One day his bad decisions would be vindicated. Hopefully. Please. 

Keith— who had stopped laughing somewhere along the line— patted Hunk’s shoulder. “Speaking of neurodivergences…” He winced in time with an especially loud bass beat. “I’m getting overstimulated, so.” He shrugged. “I’m gonna leave before everything starts sucking.”

“Oh, sure thing,” Hunk said. “Want me to stop by with leftovers later?” 

“Nah,” Keith replied. “Shiro’s already threatened me with them. I’m gonna be buried in stew.” 

“You mean The Stew, you heathen,” Lance said, words falling out of his mouth without his brain’s permission.

Keith’s mouth quirked into a smile. “Sure.” He shook his head. “See ya, Hunk. Lance.”

“Take care, Keith.”

“Later.” 

With that, Keith was gone. 

“Does he always dip out early?” Lance asked. That was two times in a row. 

“Not always,” Hunk replied. “Just when it gets really loud. Plus, y’know, eating festival. Not the biggest fan of chewing sounds.”

“Yeah, can’t blame him there,” Lance said. “It’s too bad he can’t stay longer, though.”

Hunk looked at him, eyes like searchlights sweeping over Lance’s face, then relaxed. “Yeah. But, like, not every festival is everyone’s cup of tea. You should see me on Spirit’s Eve.”

“I have,” Lance drawled. “And point taken.”

“Yeah.” Hunk laughed. “Plus, I’ve talked with Keith about it before, and he’s pretty chill about it. Sure, he’d be pissed if all the festivals were like this, but we have the quieter festivals too. It’s not all bad.”

Lance made an affirmative sound, soaking the information in. It wasn’t much different from him switching out his click pen for a quieter stim toy when he lived with Hunk, he guessed. Trying to work out how to coexist. 

“I’m glad,” Hunk said, abruptly. “That, y’know. You and Keith… It’s good to see my friends getting along. I was kind of…” Hunk fiddled with their hands. “Worried.”

It was official, Lance was the worst. Of course Hunk had felt caught in the middle. And it wasn’t like Lance could say that he wouldn’t have made Hunk choose between their friends because Lance pretty much got mad about that exact thing at the Egg festival, and quiznak, he was a tool. 

But damn it, he was a tool who was trying to fix things. 

“Hunk, I’m really sorry.” Lance reached out and squeezed their arm. “I was really pulling some garbage stunts for a while, and you didn't deserve to be caught in the middle of it.”

Hunk smiled at him, then covered Lance’s hand with theirs. “Thanks, buddy.” They squeezed, then let go. 

“Okay, enough heavy conversation,” Hunk said. “Let’s go bug my brother-in-law. Hey, Rax!”

A Balmeran who would look a lot like Shay, if Shay had a permanent thunderous expression and had stiff enough posture to give Lance a tension headache by proxy, turned to look at them. His gaze moved between the two of them, a laser focused glower. His eyes narrowed as they settled on Lance.

No matter what his friends might think, Lance  _ did _ know how to pick his battles. He didn’t always pick  _ well, _ but that was beside the point. Figuring out what beef his best friend’s brother-in-law had with him was a steer to wrangle another day.

“Actually,” Lance definitely did not squeak, “I should really go put my fish in the pot so it has enough time to cook.” 

“Oh, right!” Hunk said. “Go for it. You know where to find me.” They waved him off, and sometimes, sometimes the universe allowed Lance some saving grace. Sometimes it didn’t force him to talk to people who looked like they hated him on sight. 

The pot for The Stew was impossible to miss; the thing was so massive that some people needed step stools to reach the lip. Nearly as impressive, and just as eye catching, however, was the person guarding it.

“Mayor Allura,” Lance greeted. “You on chaperone duty?”

“Someone has to be,” Mayor Allura answered, a grim smile on her face. “Especially with Matt Holt around.”

“Hunk mentioned a cottage cheese incident?” Lance prompted. 

If looks were weapons, Mayor Allura’s expression could be used to fell armies. “Yes, well.” She smiled. It felt like a threat. “We don’t discuss the cottage cheese incident.”

Message received. Lance scrambled for some other topic. “The governor usually visits for this festival, right?”

The mayor’s expression frosted over so quickly that it was a surprise a new Ice Age hadn’t set in. Lance was just batting it out of the park with this smalltalk. 

“Oh yes,” she said, looking like she’d just downed straight vinegar. “Our honored guest.”

“Not a fan, huh?” 

“He’s accepted hefty donations from Galra Corp.” Mayor Allura’s voice was flat. “Coincidentally, certain legislation has passed through the Governor’s hands that makes that group quite happy, while increasing food prices enough that conducting this festival is barely possible. One could say we have our disagreements.” The mayor smiled. “One could also say that if duels to the death were still a legally viable option in this country, I would be a much happier woman.”

“I’m sorry,” Lance said. “That sucks.”

“It’s no fault of yours,” Mayor Allura said. She shook her head. “I just wish I didn’t have to humor him.” She screwed up her face. “Politics.” It came out like an expletive. 

“Politics.” 

After a deep breath, Mayor Allura smiled at him. “I thank you for letting me vent, Lance. Now, if you would…?” She gestured at Lance’s tupperware. 

“Right! Inspection.” Lance handed the fish over. The mayor looked startled for a second— she probably hadn’t expected the tupperware to be cold. 

“And this is?” She opened the top, looking inside with open curiosity.

“Sturgeon,” Lance replied. 

“Very nice!” Mayor Allura sighed in relief, and Lance let himself pump a fist at his side in victory. “That should work with the current ingredients quite well.” 

Lance paused. Wait a second. “So you’ve had to approve each ingredient, right?”

“That is correct, yes,” Mayor Allura answered, words enunciated and slow. 

“What did Keith dump in?”

All at once, understanding dawned on Mayor Allura’s face, a flashlight in the dark. “So that’s what this is about.” She grinned. “Tell Hunk that my lips are still sealed. They won’t get anything from me.”

“Oh my god, it’s a government conspiracy now,” Lance said, shocked. “You’re in on it, too.” 

The mayor mimed locking her mouth shut and throwing away the key. “Now, get that sturgeon into the pot,” she urged. “There’s more food for me to inspect.”

Lance did as asked with only minimal grumbling, then walked off towards the dock. Plaxum had to be around, somewhere, and she’d never let him live it down if he didn’t at least say hi.

It took him longer to find her than he thought it would, but the second she spotted him, a grin lit up her face. The instinctual terror that came with all those sharp teeth passed quickly, swept aside by the warm affection and excitement of seeing someone so pleased to see him. 

“Hey, hotshot.” Plaxum shook her head. “You really went with the riptide there, huh?”

Lance nodded. “Yeah, I have absolutely no idea what you just said.”

“I meant that you do fast work.” Plaxum jerked her head at the bridge— once broken— that now stretched between the main beach and the cove. Lance was pretty happy with it; it might not hold up if more than three adults were on it at once, but it could definitely manage a few kids looking for shells. 

“You’re looking at the master procrastinator, here, Plaxum. If there’s anything I do well, it’s crunching under a deadline.” Lance buffed his nails on his shirt, preening.

“Remind me of the meaning of procrastination, again?” Plaxum prompted. “Because I’m pretty sure that would be waiting until the last second. Y’know. Two weeks from now.”

“Aha!” Lance made a sweeping gesture, holding up a finger. “You’d think! But if I fool my brain into thinking the deadline’s earlier than that, and that there are more immediate consequences, I cheat the system.”

“Okay,” Plaxum said. “Makes enough sense, though I don’t think that’s…” She trailed off, obviously searching for a better alternative to whatever word she had in mind. “Healthy.” And she gave up. “So, what did you use as incentive?” 

Yeah, there was no way Lance was telling her that when she was already concerned about him. ‘Oh, I just thought about how disappointed you and your sister would be with me if it wasn’t finished in time, and imagined a hypothetical situation where she arrived early, and her first impression of me was that I hadn’t even started work on something I’d promised I’d do’. That’d fly about as well as a lead bar strapped to a rotor. 

“Just decided time wasn’t real,” Lance said. “If I forget what day it is, any day could be the deadline.

“Uh huh,” Plaxum said, dragging out the sounds. Still, she let it pass, so Lance was calling it a win. “Well, in any case, it’s appreciated.” She looked across at the cove, and Lance followed her gaze. 

There were people in the cove, poking around at the tide pools and chatting. Occasionally, a person would cross from one area to the other, carefully navigating the bridge. Lance felt pride swell in his chest.

“Thanks, Lance,” Plaxum said. “You did well.”

The weird thing was that, in that moment, Lance could believe it. Looking at everyone enjoying something he built, and it holding up… The feeling was indescribable. 

He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything sappy and embarrassing, the telltale shriek of audio feedback rang out. Then, after a moment, Mayor Allura’s voice rang out. 

“Good afternoon, everyone! I’m sure you have all worked up quite an appetite today, and we have a fine array of dishes to choose from. The annual Stew tasting will begin in ten tobashes. After that, we will distribute bowls to those who wish to partake in The Stew this year.” There it was. A very strategic way to let people know that if the governor got food poisoning, no one else would have to risk it.

“Once the bowls are distributed, and you have The Stew well in hand, feel free to indulge in the rest of the food we have to offer. We ask only that you conduct yourself in an orderly and considerate manner.” As polite as her words were, Mayor Allura’s tone let the crowd know that this was less of a suggestion and more of a mandate. 

Mayor Allura had this way of speaking that commanded everyone’s attention. Each word felt weighted and important, even when it worked out to something like, ‘hey, everybody, let’s watch the governor risk food poisoning and chow down.’ When the microphone clicked off, it felt like everyone released a held breath.

Plaxum whistled. “I’m gay.”

_ “Plaxum?” _ Her name came out in half an incredulous whisper, half a laugh. 

She grinned up at him and shrugged. Which, okay, fair. Not like he was one to talk. 

“Okay, so, I’m gonna swim down to the cove so I can get a better view of the governor’s face when he gulps down The Mystery Stew, and I’m sure you’ll want front row seats, so…” Plaxum gestured with her tail in a sort of lazy salute. 

“Have fun,” Lance responded. “I’ll see you later.” 

“Oh, I will,” Plaxum said, grinning. “I hear reactions to The Stew can be pretty entertaining.” With that, she sped off towards the cove. 

Well, she wasn’t exactly wrong. Lance felt like maybe, objectively, he should feel bad for looking forward to seeing whatever face the governor would make, especially when he’d agonized over the sturgeon for so long, but well… From what Allura said, the dude was kind of a dick. Therefore, Lance was completely justified in rushing over to get a front row seat. 

Besides, Pidge was in the same boat, from the look on her face. 

“Careful, Pidge,” Lance said, patting her on the shoulder. “Any closer and you’ll be in the splash zone.”

“Some sacrifices are necessary,” Pidge said, voice dripping with grim anticipation. “Governor Sendak’s passed the majority of the legislation keeping our seeds out of off-planet sales. If he gets poisoned, I get first dibs on the beautiful, beautiful image of him heaving chunks.” She smiled, small and fierce. “Bet I could sell the pictures, too.”

“I’d say that it’s a good thing I’m not on your bad side, but, uh, been there, done that,” Lance said. 

Pidge turned to him and laughed. “Oh, wow. Trust me. You haven’t seen my bad side.” Then, still shaking her head with muffled laughter, she turned back towards the pot.

Huh! Terrifying!

Before Lance could make sense of whether or not he’d just been threatened, Mayor Allura was introducing the governor, who proceeded to bluster a lot about community and support. The words slipped through Lance’s ears like a greased fish.

Then, after what seemed like centuries, the governor finally, finally dipped into a bowl of The Stew. Lance wasn’t sure Pidge was breathing.

A small eternity passed.

“Ah…” The governor said, finally. Eloquent. Fantastic. That told everyone exactly nothing. “That’s a very pleasant soup,” he continued, and oh. Alright. 

Lance wasn’t sure whether he should be proud or disappointed. Beside him, Pidge deflated. 

“The produce from this valley never disappoints!” The governor was still talking, but everyone had clearly lost interest, instead craning their heads towards the stacks of bowls. 

“Weird how you’re trying to outlaw it then, huh?” Pidge muttered, then cursed. “Whatever! Whatever.” She turned to Lance. “Let’s go get some ‘pleasant’ free food.”

And, well, that sounded like as good an alternative to watching a government official lose his lunch as any. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take this chapter as your reminder to eat today. I got so hungry while writing this. Thanks, Stardew, for having a festival devoted solely to food so that I got to spend several days writing about good food while shoving frozen uncrustables in my mouth.
> 
> Also this chapter had to be split because it got too long. A running pattern. So look forward to some more Keith content next chapter.


	14. Being Fortune's Fool is A Hard Job, But Someone's Gotta Do It (Now Can Someone Else Take A Turn)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Friends Are Like Trees: They Attract Watering Cans and Cats

Lance’s watering can wasn't exactly… _functionable,_ per say. It had done its best, for sure! It held water most of the time, and it had watered his crops if he held it at the right angle. Even watering cans were helpless against the ravages of time, however, and it finally lost its ongoing battle with gravity and old age when its bottom fell out. A tragic loss for all of mankind, but mostly Lance and his crops. A loss for melonkind? A loss.

Holtover’s had been Lance’s first choice, of course, but Pidge had taken a sort of sadistic glee from telling Lance that his best bet for ‘quality tools’ would be the blacksmith. As if she didn’t remember that Lance and Keith already resolved their issues, which, hello! That was a whole big thing! Pidge had put him in timeout and everything! She didn’t have to act like it was some huge trial for Lance to ask Keith for help, which— Okay, well. That was aside from the point, and it was rude for her to assume. It shouldn’t have been, like, any problem at all. He and Keith had built a kiln and a foundry together, for quiznak’s sake! They’d proven they could make small talk, too! Maybe they weren’t exactly best buddies, but they were at least… Acquaintances? Com...rades? Fellow guildsman?

Wait, Lance wasn’t in a guild. Was Keith in a guild? Was Hunk?

Did Lance need to join a guild?

Ugh. Whatever. Potential guilds and weird, nebulous relationships aside, Lance was fully capable of putting the past behind him and asking for Keith’s help.

Besides. There weren’t any other available options, and at this point, Lance was practiced at dealing with his own bullshit. All he had to do was set a deadline for himself, which was easy when there were crops at stake, and even easier when he saw the weather forecast. He’d be safe as long as it was raining, but he needed a watering can before the heatwave hit. All things considered, it was the easiest thing in the world to mosey over to Keith’s and ask for a watering can.

Or, it _would_ be easy street if Lance’s brain wasn’t a smug jerk with access to the forbidden executive function buried in the recesses of his skull. It wasn’t that walking over to Keith’s place would be hard— or, theoretically, Lance knew it wasn’t, but in practice…

The problem was that even though Lance could walk through the steps one by one in his head—  and sure, they were simple by themselves— when put together they shut his brain down like a smartphone in winter. Which! It shouldn’t have been overwhelming! It was only like…

Lance stalled. Again. Trying to count the steps to make it seem less overwhelming? Somehow the opposite of helpful.

Ugh. He was going to end up killing all his crops at this point.

Lance pressed his palms to his eyes and groaned. Okay. He could do this. Just had to… Yeah, powering through it wasn’t gonna work. So! Other options.

He needed to look at it from a different angle. It was like that one song about hunting bears that Veronica’s kids used to be obsessed with. He couldn’t go through the problem, so he’d have to go around. Or, well, reverse engineer the solution, anyway.

Problem: thinking about all of the steps made it impossible to actually go and get a new watering can, which meant that he couldn’t— Okay, no, that was the problem again. Too much context.

Wait a second.

Lance turned it over in his mind again. The problem _was_ too much context— he wasn’t just thinking about the next step; he was thinking about _every_ next step. So what if he just took it one step at a time? No thinking about anything else. Just winging it.

That _had_ to be it. If thinking about everything together was the issue, he just had to chunk it up. And the first chunk was actually leaving his farm.

Lance nodded decisively, then stood up. He was going to get his watering can, and he was going to get it today! Planning? Never heard of her! Impulse control? Unnecessary! Steps? Who needed them! He just needed to get up and go. Whatever followed, followed.

Decided, Lance picked up his phone and wallet from where he’d set them on the porch, then gave Blue a scratch behind the ears for good measure. She meowed at him, but didn’t react otherwise.

“Today,” he announced to her, “we have won an important battle against the evil emperor Bad Brain.”

Very impressed with him, she stretched in the sun and yawned.

“Yeah, I thought you’d think that was cool.” He saluted her. “Take good care of the house while I’m out.”

Lance allowed himself a victorious grin as he finally started the trek to Keith’s house. It was a lot easier to keep going once he started, which, who’d have guessed? (Lance had guessed.) He was officially the best at brains.

He needed to start making snap decisions more often.

 

* * *

 

Whoever let Lance make snap decisions was a charlatan and a fool.

In Lance’s defense, the plan-to-not-make-plans had seemed like a much better idea before Keith had asked him for the ingots to make the watering can. The ingots that Lance hadn’t brought. Because he’d marched off his farm in the spur of the moment.

However! Even if it did take Lance an entire hour to jog all the way to his farm and back with the ingots— _in the rain,_ which meant he also had to make sure the metal wasn’t getting wet— he’d made it before closing, and that was not only what mattered, it was impressive as hell, and Lance wouldn’t let anyone take that from him!

Keith looked up from the counter as Lance walked in, eyebrows raised, and wait. Wait a second. That was very much a cash box, and— Oh. Lance had taken an hour to get back.

Holy crow, Lance was really that asshole showing up less than an hour before closing, wasn’t he? Hell.  

“Sorry!” Lance blurted out. “I can come back with these tomorrow?”

Keith looked at him for a long moment. His expression was unreadable, especially with Lance’s wet hair blocking out half of it.

“You, uh, left before I could offer you a ride,” Keith said, finally. “I have a speeder.”

“Hm! No,” Lance responded automatically. Then scrambling, “Sorry, that came out— I mean, you’d have to close up shop to drive me, and that’s bad business practice. So, no. Plus, we’d both get soaked.” Lance was already dealing with chafing wet binder problems; he wouldn’t wish wet clothes on anyone.

“This is a forge,” Keith said. “Things dry off quickly.” There was a pause where neither of them said anything. Then, after a moment, Keith sighed. “Your watering can should be done in a few days.”

“Cool!” Lance said, blowing out his cheeks in relief. “That’s what I figured.” He pushed his dripping hair out of his face, then grinned. “Should be just in time for the heatwave, right?”

“That’s…” Keith’s eyebrows knit together. “Really good planning, actually.”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised!” Lance squawked indignantly.

Keith snorted, then gestured for the ingots. “So, you don’t have a backup?” He asked as he took them from Lance.

Lance looked at him, blank as a diary that someone swore they’d use someday, eventually.

“Backup watering can,” Keith clarified.

“Oh, no.” Lance whistled. “Used to, but then the bottom fell out.”

Keith made a sound of dismissal and rolled his eyes. “Great workmanship, huh.”

“Someone’s a snob,” Lance said, but he couldn’t keep the delight out of his voice. Finally, vindication. Proof that Keith _was_ superior about some things.

He’d probably have to unpack that later, but that was a problem for future Lance. Present Lance was too busy throwing the suitcase out the window.

“This is literally my job,” Keith said, dry and flat as a plateau, and okay, fine. Point: Keith.

They were both silent for another beat— long enough that Lance was about to excuse himself and go— when Keith spoke up again.

“So,” he said. “How was it?”

Lance stared at him for a long moment, then laughed. “Okay... Keith? One day we have to— You understand that people can’t just read your mind, right? Like I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

Keith arched an eyebrow. “You sure?”

What.

“Wha— Okay, that’s what I’m talking about!” Lance threw up his arms. “What is with the people in this town and saying ominous stuff! Like, am I supposed to take that as ‘oh people read minds here,’ or ‘are you sure you have no clue what I’m saying’?”

“You’re supposed to take it as ‘I’m fucking with you,’” Keith said, a small smile quirking on his lips. “That time, anyway.”

Lance squinted at him. “But you’re not f— _messing_ with me most of the time?”

“Nah,” Keith said. “Most people seem to pick up more from conversations than I do, so…” He shrugged. “I don’t know how much they need.”

Lance _guessed_ that made sense? “Okay, well, trust me: I need way more context than ‘how was it’ to even begin guessing what you’re talking about.”

“The Stew,” Keith said. “I left early.”

Right. Keith hadn’t gotten to see the results of his secret ingr— _Wait._

Lance squinted at Keith. Keith looked warily back. “What.”

“I’ll tell you,” Lance started, leaning back. He stroked his chin for dramatic effect. “If! You tell me what you put in The Stew.”

“Oh, coffee,” Keith said immediately. “You know that wasn’t much of a bargaining chip though, right? I could have asked Shiro.”

 _“You’re_ not much of a bargaining chip,” Lance fired back, like a five-year-old. Then the rest of Keith’s words hit. “Wait, what? You just—” Lance gawked at him. “You just told me?”

“Yeah,” Keith said, shrugging. “I promised myself I’d tell Hunk if they ever asked again, like… three years ago? About then, yeah. But they never did.”

Lance opened and closed his mouth. Then, after a moment, he pointed with his hands, palms flat. “Why. Why would you do this?”

“It’s funnier this way,” Keith said. “And Hunk has fun too, so.”

Well. Hunk did seem to be having fun with their espionage. But still!

“Five _years_ , though,” Lance said. “Five! Like, that’s a _long_ long-con, even if years are shorter here. Like, that’s two whole Earth years, and I don’t know how long you’ve been working here, but that has to be a pretty big chunk—”

“Since the Garrison,” Keith said, and Lance fell silent. Seven years Earth time, then. That was— Okay, that was unexpected.

“Okay,” Lance said, and half of him was insistent that he drag them back into a joke about how almost a fifth of Keith’s time had been spent on the Grand Coffee Caper, anything to lighten the atmosphere that had sunk like a stone at the sound of their alma mater, but half of him… Half of him wanted to see where Keith was going with this.

But Keith was quiet.

Well. In that case, it was up to Lance to make things awkward while stumbling into tonally appropriate topics. Keith better appreciate the burden Lance was taking off his shoulders.

“This place, uh…” Lance waved a hand around at the forge, as if he could have meant anything different. “It used to be your mom’s, right?”

“Yeah,” Keith said. “She— wait.” His gaze sharpened. “How’d you know my mom?”

Lance startled. “Oh, I— When I was little, I used to visit my Gramps up here, when I could. So, when I found a geode, she’d break it open and tumble the stones for me.”

“Oh.” The sound escaped Keith like one of those geodes: rounded, with a weight to it. “Yeah.”

“And now here we are,” Lance said. “Time’s a circle, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Keith agreed, but it was anyone’s guess as to whether he knew what he was agreeing to. He seemed a bit spaced out.

“Did… Uh.” How far was Lance allowed to push? “Did she teach you how to do this stuff?”

Keith snorted, and suddenly he was present again. “No, that was Shiro,” he said. “He worked with Mom over the summers, so he taught me after she, uh.” Keith’s shoulder went up and down, a not-quite shrug. “I wasn’t old enough to learn much before she was gone.”

He huffed out a breath. “Never thought I’d actually work here.”

As much as Lance had wanted to get into Keith’s head, he’d never expected anything close to this. Theoretically, Keith had to have had parents, or a family— it wasn’t like he’d hatched, fully formed. Lance had just never really… He guessed he just hadn’t been able to place Keith in that context. It was like the closer he got, the blurrier Keith became.

Lance had been so sure for so long that he had the right answer that he’d never even looked at the question: who was Keith Kogane, anyway?

“How come—”

Lance was cut off by a loud whine of a meow.

“Oh my— _Red,”_ Keith groaned. “Sorry, one second.” He walked over to the furnace, then appeared to heft a piece of the floor into the air. Then it moved, and, oh, it was just a _really large_ tortoiseshell cat. “Are you happy with your decisions?”

The cat meowed mournfully at him, then pressed a paw into his face. “Yeah, this is your own fault,” Keith intoned, no sympathy to be found.

Then he walked over to the door and placed the cat out onto the stoop. He was careful about it, picking out a dry spot that was covered by the overhang, despite his tone. The cat all but melted on the cement once it reached the ground. “Think about your actions.”

“Red?” Lance asked, unable to think of anything else in the wake of whatever the heck just happened.

“Yeah,” Keith said. He rolled his eyes. “She likes to melt her brain in front of the fire, then she can’t drag herself away when she’s had enough.”

“Uh!” Lance raised a hand. “Hey, hi, I have some concerns!”

“Don’t worry,” Keith assured him. “She’s fine. She’ll cool down out there for a bit, then try to melt her brain again. Or attack a cactus.”

Lance lived a blessed life and officially had the best cat ever. He needed to thank the universe for sending Blue his way instead of a hell demon.

“So, why’d you name her—”

The sound of an owl hooting cut Lance off. What. _What?_ Was there an owl in Keith’s forge? _Why_ was there an owl in Keith’s forge?

Keith, in comparison, seemed way less startled than he should have been. “Oh, shit. I should start closing up.”

“That was a _clock?”_ Lance asked.

“Yeah,” Keith confirmed, as if clocks that sounded like owls were just! Completely normal!

“Okay! Sure!” Lance said. He shook his head. “I’ll see you in a few days, then.”

Keith blinked up at him as if it hadn’t occurred to him that the forge closing meant that Lance would leave. Which, jeez. Lance wasn’t that much of a jerk, thanks.

“Oh, yeah. I’ll text you when the watering can’s done?”

“Sounds good,” Lance said, shooting him a thumbs up. Then, taking care to step over Red, he started on his way home.

 

* * *

 

The thing was, Lance had been having a very productive season, and the past few days were no exception. He’d gone to the Potluck, he’d commissioned a watering can from Keith and a silo from Hunk, and he’d harvested a pretty large chunk of his first wave of Summer crops. In the rain, even! He’d been, like, encrusted in mud! His sacrifices were many.

Lance had even tried out the ‘recipe’ Plaxum had sent him in the mail. Sure, he’d nearly had a heart attack when he opened the mailbox because she’d used that same mysterious seaweed paper to send her letter while it was _storming_ outside, and he may have opened it just as a crack of thunder sounded, but whatever. He could appreciate a flair for the dramatics. Even if the included ‘recipe’ was literally just a handwritten link to a how-to-make-sashimi video.

Why were Lance’s friends like this.

In any case, Lance had done a lot over the past few days, and therefore no one should be able to judge him for being less than perfect at the whole alchemy thing.

“What does meditating have to do with alchemy, anyway?” Lance grumbled. Besides, weren’t there supposed to be, like, yoga matts or something? His butt was going numb. Coran’s floor was actively hostile to human life.

“Meditation is essential to all quintessence manipulation, my boy!” Coran stroked his moustache. “You’ve got to open your mind to what the universe is trying to tell you about itself! Shake its hand! Ask it how it’s been expanding recently! Learn the shape of it!”

“I’m not gonna flirt with the universe, Coran.”

“Oh, we all do enough of that already,” Coran said, which, hello? What? “Let the universe approach you on its own terms.”

Uh-huh. Well, whatever. Anything to get him off the cold, hard floor a little bit faster. Lance closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind.

Easier said than done.

Even when he pushed out all of his brain’s ‘helpful’ reminders of everything he still needed to do, it was like being slapped with wave after wave of brain static. Watering can—  Blue— Hunk— focus— Angel and Luis— Veronica— Veronica’s kids— _focus_ — can’t go over it, can’t go under it, can’t go around— fishing with Plaxum— ocean— watercolor ships going down in a blaze— focus—  gotta go through it— fire— fire removes rust— he really needed to fix that cabinet once he got home— focus— _focus— focus on what?_ Nothing? Ha!

Lance’s eyes snapped open. “This isn’t working, Coran.” He knocked his fist against the floor in an agitated rhythm. “Every time I try to, it’s like…” He blew out his cheeks. “I can ‘clear my mind’, but that just leaves it open for everything to drift in— not the universe, just… junk.”

Coran looked at him, expressionless. Then, after a long moment, he patted Lance on the shoulder. “We’ll work on it,” he said.

“Coran,” Lance whined. “I don’t think you get— I literally can’t do this. My brain won’t let me.”

Coran nodded. “Maybe so. You know your limits better than anyone, after all. But that just means this method won’t work, not every method. We simply need to think of an alternative.” He clapped his hands together. “And I do love getting creative! Put some old Meruflian lubricant to work!”   

Lance looked at him for a long moment, then laughed. “Alright, Coran. Sure.” Anything worth doing was worth a few different approaches, right? Although, maybe not just that minute. “Can we save it for next time, though? I have a cat to feed.”

Coran beamed at him. “Oh fantastic! You’re learning to pace yourself.”

“Hey!” Lance cried, indinant. “I’m not that—”

In the next second, there was a flash, and Lance was on his doorstep, blinking into the dim light of the diminishing sunset.

“...bad.” Lance sighed. One day he would get used to his life here. One day.

One thing was for sure, though. Next time he saw Coran, they were going to have a long conversation about teleporting people without warning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really glad I could update speedily this time, considering I'm not quite sure how my schedule will shake up in the near future. I have a job interview in a few hours, and I'm also working on a [ shiny, completely self-indulgent AU where Lance is an AI](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15468438/chapters/35908803)
> 
> However, I also wrote about 6.5K in one go yesterday, so who knows! My workflow might not change at all.
> 
> Happy Birthday Lance you get TWO fic chapters


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